by Kate Gordon
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
My feet scream it as I walk away. Run.
I go to buy a meat pie to eat while I wait for the bus.
When I get to the gates Rhino is there, waiting for me. He nods at my pie. ‘Classic beef?’
I nod. ‘With barbecue sauce, though. Living on the edge.’
‘I had a curried scallop one,’ he says. ‘From Banjo’s. While I was waiting for you.’
I walk towards the bus stop. I need to finish my pie before the bus arrives, so I take a big bite. I talk through pastry and mince, not caring. I don’t have to care with Rhino. ‘Why are you waiting for me?’
He does a funny little shuffling dance; starts humming a Jamiroquai song. I raise an eyebrow. He stops dancing. ‘I thought you might be going home to do homework.’
I swallow. ‘You thought right. And then I’m baking banana bread with Auntie Kath. And then I’m going over to Brad’s house to run through some songs for the musical with him and Jarrod. And then I told Melody I’d—’
‘You’re not doing any of that.’
I take another bite of my pie while I think what to say. I ignore Rhino’s raised eyebrow, his tapping foot, while he waits. ‘Yes, I am,’ I answer, finally. ‘That’s the plan.’
‘Plans change.’
I shake my head. I see the bus trundling towards us, slowing as it reaches the stop by the park. I ferret in my pocket for my Green Card.
‘Why are you doing this, Rhino? The beach and now this?’
‘You don’t want to do homework. And, right now, you don’t want to be with Melody.’
‘She’s my best friend. And my other best friend died, remember?’
He nods. ‘Yes. You can talk about it, if you want. I’ll listen forever.’
‘I don’t want to talk.’
‘You don’t want to hang out with Melody, either, do you? So I’m giving you an out that doesn’t involve more bloody homework.’
‘They want to talk,’ I admit. ‘I want to keep moving. It’s the best way.’ I bite my lip. ‘I should still, you know, do stuff with them. And I will, just as soon as I’ve … I dunno. As soon as I ...’
‘When you’re ready.’
‘Yeah. And I know that I should be handling—’
‘Should, should, should.’ Rhino takes my arm as the bus pulls up. I let the people behind me—happy people in brown and gold, and grumpy ones in white and red—climb on to the bus before me. ‘Should do homework. Should go out with your friends. Should get on that bus … Don’t get on there. Homework can always be done later and I’m sure that Kath can bake without you.’
‘No, she can’t. That’s the point. She’s terrible. She’ll make Pavlova without eggs or apple cake without apple. She’ll burn the house down. Because her brain is on fire and brilliant and she gets distracted in the middle of baking by ideas for art that will break your heart. And homework can’t wait today because I’m already behind.’
‘Are you behind? Or have you done it all, but just want to spend more time perfecting it?’
How the hell does he know that? How does he know all this? All the things I thought I was hiding.
‘It’s got to be good,’ I say, sticking out my chin.
‘Who says? Besides, I’m sure it’s already good. You could do “good” in five minutes, couldn’t you, Tiger? And if Auntie Kath stuffs up the banana bread, the Earth won’t stop spinning. The world won’t break if your plans change, Tiges.’
Plans changed. Wally died.
But if I keep moving, I can outrun the breaking parts. Miss the cracks, like in one of those old Indiana Jones films that Auntie Kath loves.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask again, as the last of the other footy supporters climbs up the steps. ‘And don’t just say that you’re giving me an excuse. What’s in it for you?’
‘I just feel like it,’ Rhino says, simply.
‘And you always just do what you feel like?’
Rhino grins. ‘Yup.’
I sigh. ‘So what do you feel like doing now, Ryan Abdul Haqq Krishnappan?’
‘Park,’ Rhino says. ‘Swings. Possibly slide also.’
‘I haven’t been on the swings since I was a kid,’ I say.
Rhino laughs. ‘You still are a kid, Tiges. You’ve just forgotten it.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
On the swings, Rhino insists on pushing me higher and higher, until my shoes fall off and a little girl starts to cry because she’s worried I might fall.
‘He’s a good swing-wrangler,’ I whisper to the little girl, whose name we find out is Amelia, when she looks dubious. ‘And a great person. You will be safe with him.’
Rhino pushes Amelia for half an hour. She stops crying quickly, and starts laughing and yelling, ‘More, more!’
While Rhino plays with his tiny new friend, I chat to her mum, Samantha, about school and her work at a call centre and her other daughter, Charlotte, who’s having her first play date without her mum.
‘She’s my baby and she’s growing up too quickly,’ Samantha sighs. ‘Life’s far too short, isn’t it?’
I just nod.
She asks me about what I like to do. I tell her about school and band and work. I tell her I like football and baking with Auntie Kath and acting and art.
‘And going on swings,’ Samantha says.
‘Yeah,’ I laugh. ‘And going on swings.’
‘I think going on swings sounds like the most fun part,’ she says.
After Amelia has finally tired of swinging, tired of the park, tired of everything (‘Come on, kidlet, time for your nap’), Rhino and I go to visit the emus.
We laugh at the funny, honking, almost-mooing sound they make, and their Mick Jagger walk.
‘Those birds have got serious swag,’ Rhino says.
Then we go and sit on the playground train, eating jelly snakes and telling tiger and rhinoceros jokes.
I leave Rhino at the bus stop. ‘See you Tuesday,’ I say. ‘At work. Unless you kidnap me again.’
‘Can I kidnap you again?’ Rhino asks.
I laugh and shake my head. ‘I have to go to musical practice on Monday. And tomorrow I have to catch up on homework. And, besides, aren’t you sick of me already?’
‘A bit,’ Rhino says. ‘But, you know, I feel like I’m performing a public service here.’
He grins at me as he waves down his bus. ‘I forgot to ask you before, Tiger. How’s tricks?’
‘Right now, okay,’ I admit.
‘My work here is done,’ he says, boarding the bus. ‘See you on Tuesday.’
‘See ya,’ I reply. Then I think of something. ‘Hey, Rhino!’ I call out. ‘Maybe you can bring your girlfriend next time we go out. I’d like to meet her.’
He mustn’t hear me. He’s already halfway up the bus. He smiles and waves, while I make a mental note to ask him about his girlfriend again on Tuesday.
I don’t even know her name.
I’m home in time to bake. Auntie Kath doesn’t ask why I’m late, and she doesn’t hassle me to do my homework. She knows I’m on top of it.
We mash banana, sift flour and grease tins. She’s concentrating on getting the measuring right; on not forgetting any ingredients; on the difference between stirring and folding.
I’m happy with the quiet. I’m not in the mood for talking.
When our baking is in the oven we sit on the floor, watching it rise. She kisses me on the head and there is silence and warmth and I feel only a few miles from happy, instead of continents.
Outside, the wind is coming up. From one of the branches in the ghost gum across the road, a rope dangles. It was a kid’s swing once, until the tyre fell off.
I know that.
But I still have to look away.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Mel
ody corners me by the lockers.
‘What is going on with you?’ she cries. ‘I haven’t seen you in days—pretty much since the wake—and I’m worried. Roz and I are both really worried. We’re worried you’re withdrawing. And you still haven’t been to your session. I know you haven’t, even though when I asked Mrs Koetsveld about it she said she couldn’t tell me. And I have a week’s worth of pork buns and dumplings and all sorts of fried desserts that my mum’s made for you in my locker. And I just finished reading this awesome book by Clementine Ford, and I’m dying for you to read it, so we can discuss it. And ...’
Melody looks, suddenly, very small. And Melody Kwong is six-feet tall. She never looks small. ‘Resey, I can sort of handle just filling up my Twitter feed with hashtags about how awesome the book is. And I can almost handle the pork smell in my locker too. But I can’t handle you not talking to me. Because it’s not fair. It really isn’t. We’ve been friends for so long, and I tell you everything, and you tell me everything, and I can’t handle that not happening. Please, Resey. I need to talk to you. And you need to talk to me. If you won’t talk to anyone else, you at least need to talk to me. Because Wally mentioned you in the letter and I know something happened and I want you to tell me. You’re meant to tell me everything. And there’s this quote in the book that goes something like feminism helps to feel like a girl and for it to not hurt. And that’s true for me, too, but you know what makes it hurt even less? You. You make everything hurt less, Resey, and now, without you, everything just aches.’
Melody stops and breathes, finally.
‘Are you finished?’
Melody shakes her head. ‘No. I also need to tell you I have a new girlfriend and I think I love her.’ She pauses. ‘Now I’m finished.’
‘You have a girlfriend?’
Melody nods and flashes a tentative smile. ‘The girl from the coffee stand. Jacinta. JC. She’s a barista, and a dancer.’ Melody does a half-hearted version of jazz hands. ‘I talked to her at the wake and she asked me out. She even skipped a shift so we could have lunch— and omigod, Resey, she likes Roxane Gay. And Wonder Woman and she knows all the words from all the musical episodes of Buffy and she’s planning to study psychology at uni too and … Resey, do you think I did a bad thing? See! I have to ask you this stuff! Was it wrong we got together at the wake?’
I sigh. ‘Probably. But I’m happy for you.’
‘I’m happy, too,’ says Melody. ‘But only sort of. Because I can’t be one hundred percent happy if you won’t talk to me. I need you to tell me the secret that—’
My fingers curl. ‘It’s not gossip, Melody. I’m not gossip.’
‘I know, but—’
‘I told you I don’t want to talk.’
‘Why not? It’s not healthy, Resey. You must know that.’
I take out my English books and slam the locker door shut again. ‘It’s healthy. It’s normal. It’s fine!’ I yell. ‘Your way is not the only way, Melody. Surely your feminist books taught you that? There’s no one way to do anything, so just let me do things my way. Okay?’
Melody’s eyes widen. I don’t think she’s ever heard me raise my voice before, besides when I’m getting stuck into the umpires.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, more quietly. ‘I’m sorry I talked to you like that and I’m honestly stoked you have a girlfriend, especially one who likes Buffy. I don’t care at all where you met her and I want you to be happy and I’m glad you are. And I’ll read the book, I’ll even eat the buns, but … Melody, I’m sorry, but I just can’t be around you right now.’
Melody looks stung. But then she puts on her professional face. ‘Because you’re not coping with Wally’s death.’
I’m coping fine.
He was hanging in a tree.
I close my eyes.
I open and close my fingers. I try and breathe, but my lungs feel too small.
Into the bubble I’m making around me, Melody’s words pierce like a needle. ‘Do you remember when you first saw Wally?’
Grade Seven.
Home Group.
Miss Newman at the front of the classroom, telling us we’re all going to be great friends.
Birds at the window.
The smell of grass—it’s still summer.
Melody on one side. Roz on the other.
Protected.
My books spread out in front of me, neatly sharpened pencils, new biros, rubbers that smell like strawberry.
Ignoring the whispers from the few kids who didn’t know me:
‘Is she the one?’
‘The one who ...’
‘She was just a baby.’
‘I heard it from my mum.’
‘I’ve seen her around town.’
‘That’s definitely her.’
‘Can we ask her about it?’
‘Do you think she’d tell us?’
Melody passed me a sherbet bomb and a sticker with a feminist fist on it. Stay strong, her note commanded. Roz passed me a fancy artisan chocolate she’d sneaked from her mother’s drawer. We’ve got you, hers said, with a heart and a kiss.
I passed two notes: Thanks, guys.
They’ll get over it, a note came back, from Roz. They used to whisper about me because of my hair and because my parents are rich.
They whispered about me because I’m Asian and gay. Melody winked at me as I read her note. Let me kung fu their butts. Then we’ll talk about it and you’ll feel better.
I knew it was a joke. The kung fu part, anyway. Melody hates martial arts as much as she hates all sports.
The other kids didn’t know that, though.
Miss Newman was telling us how to read our timetables.
‘Here is first period—it’s always a core subject. Core subjects are Maths, English, Science, Phys Ed and—’
That’s when the door burst open.
A flurry of dark curls, tanned skin, long legs.
A brown-and-gold scarf.
A new kid.
And, of course, we were all new kids; fresh from primary school, new to this class and to this high school. But most of us had gone together to the same feeder primary school. I would have assumed he was from out of town, but he did look familiar. Like maybe I had seen him, once or twice, out of the corner of my eye.
‘And you are ...’ Miss Newman was trying to sound tough. Even then we knew she wasn’t capable of it.
‘I’m Wally. Nick Wallace. I went to the Christian school for primary school, but I moved here for high school for the footy team. Theirs sucked. Pleased to meet you.’
He held out a hand.
My heart changed rhythm; started dancing.
Miss Newman took his hand and shook it. ‘Pleased to meet you, too, Wally-Nick Wallace, the footballer. And why are we ten minutes late to our very first class of high school?’
‘Would you believe “kidnapped by aliens”?’ Wally asked. We all laughed.
Everyone was falling in love with Wally already.
Even Miss Newman. She laughed, too. ‘I would like to, because I’m sure it’s much more interesting than the real reason.’
‘Sadly true, Miss Newman,’ Wally said. ‘The real reason is that my mother had a bit of a moment in the car park. Her little boy going to high school. She got all teary. And then she wanted me to wear a scarf and I said it wasn’t on the uniform list, but she got it in her head that I’d be safe from potential germs and contaminants if I wore a scarf.’ Wally sighed. ‘And so here I am. With scarf. But, hopefully, germ-free’
‘You’ll need to take off the scarf,’ Miss Newman said. ‘Even though I approve of the colours. Hawks fan?’
Wally nodded. ‘AFL and TFL. I’m going to play for both of them one day.’
‘Well that’s a great ambition,’ Miss Newman said. ‘But first you need to learn to read
your timetable. We’ve finished “Home Group”. We’re up to “What is a core subject?”—it’s fascinating stuff. There’s a spare seat there.’ Miss Newman pointed to the desk in front of us. The one next to Peter.
‘Thanks, Miss N,’ said Wally, unwinding the scarf from his neck.
‘You have one minute to get to know the people sitting next to you,’ Miss Newman said. ‘Then I want your full attention. She clasped her hands and watched, expectantly.
‘Hi, I’m Peter.’ Peter extended a hand. ‘Otherwise known as Casanova Pete.’
‘Really?’ Wally said, looking dubious.
Peter sighed. ‘Nah. But did it work for me? Even a bit?’
Wally took Peter’s hand and shook it, firmly, clapping his other hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘Just be yourself, I reckon, mate,’ he said.
And then he turned to me and Melody and Roz. ‘G’day, I’m Wally,’ he said. ‘I have no friends here whatsoever. Can I steal you fellas? And can this one have you too?’ he jerked a thumb in Peter’s direction.
Peter laughed. ‘Fair call, mate. Yeah, I’d be up for that.’
‘You can both be our best friends forever.’ Melody spoke for the three of us. ‘Only if Resey can have your scarf, though. She’s obsessed. Ridiculously.’ She pointed at my school folder, which was covered in brown-and-gold contact.
‘It’s okay,’ I mumbled. ‘It’s your scarf. It’s fine.’
‘I have two other ones just like it,’ Wally said, passing the scarf over. ‘My mum is very into scarves. You can have it if you promise to be my very best friend. Deal?’
I nodded. ‘Okay.’
I took the scarf.
It smelled like him.
‘Onya, Champ,’ said Wally.
I loved him from that moment. I never stopped.
He was hanging in a tree.
I breathe, open eyes, be nothing.
‘Of course I remember,’ I say to Melody. ‘What’s it got to do with anything?’
‘Remember how funny he was and how everyone in the class—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I growl. I push past her and march away, up the hallway towards my English class.
‘You have to talk to someone!’ Melody calls out after me. ‘You have to talk to Mrs Koetsveld. It’s important!’