Underdog

by Tobias Madden

Then

  Autumn knows the difference between what makes a person happy—a Macca’s run after school, grabbing a pet and holding them tight—and what happiness actually is: chemicals.

  Dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, and endorphins.

  Autumn scribbles Punnett squares on the inside of their wrist sometimes when nothing much is going on, and can tell you all about the near-deadly physics of Super Mario Galaxy, but they have no idea, absolutely none, of how they’re supposed to go about getting some weed.

  It’s not something that’s ever been covered in homeroom. Or something they’ve had to study for their SAC: Where to get marijuana—please circle the appropriate choice. But this isn’t Saints College, this is Tech, this should be easy.

  Their dad used to get stoned down the back of the Tech oval with his mate, Joel. While absolutely gone, they’d duct-taped a mate to the traffic lights out on the main street. Hid from teachers in a bush during class, high and giggly.

  Their dad talks about Joel as if he’s in love with him. Just a bit, or just in love with that life, the before.

  Point is, the kids at Tech get away with not wearing their uniforms. They don’t get into the eighties with their ATARs—at least, not yet, Autumn tells themself—and they don’t care all that much when they’re chucked detention after detention for nicking off campus at lunch. Tech kids are the public-school kids. The bogans.

  And Autumn’s sure that someone here knows how to get weed.

  Now

  Chin cradled by their arms up on the desk, Autumn sits in their final period, English, and eyes the second hand lapping the clock’s face. Conjugating verbs—rough on a normal day and pretty much impossible this late on a Friday arvo. The annex is stuffy and the guys in the back row are a stinking horde, having kicked off their shoes under the table. It’s gross. Miss noticed it too, making a big show earlier of going around and opening up all the windows.

  Autumn has homework to do, notes to take, but they scribble a Punnett square for attached earlobes—EE, Ee, Ee, ee—on their notebook. They’re pulled out of their head by heavy footsteps outside. They sit up. The door opens.

  A stocky white man with a shiny suit and a shiny head leans in. Where Autumn’s dad’s scalp is blotchy and yellow under most lights now, Sir’s is freshly shaven. It’s rare seeing their principal anywhere outside of Monday-morning assembly, let alone in their class.

  His eyes survey the room and just as Autumn’s about to go back to their own inner surveying, Sir says, ‘Sorry for interrupting. Autumn Nichols, can you collect your things and come with me, please.’

  Though he’s asking, it’s not really a question.

  It takes a second, but when it hits, Autumn’s tongue grips the top of their mouth. They’re still.

  ‘Autumn,’ Miss prompts, eyeing them through her specs. Autumn jerks. There’s a feeling that sits on top of their chest, a numbness that folds down onto itself and spreads across their stomach and legs.

  Heart rate, blood-pressure, epinephrine, that adrenaline high. The most basic of basic instincts: fight or flight. Controlled by norepinephrine. Autumn knows this. But still, shit.

  They gather their things, scoop up their bag and feel Rhiannon’s eyes on their back. She’s probably already DMing them to make a run for it—both her hands are under the table.

  Then

  The plaster on the walls in the bathroom is an off-egg yellow, cracked and peeling. Autumn’s fixated on it, or at least trying to be, but the writing on the wall in black texta is kind of distracting.

  HAPPINESS IS PAIN

  Okay, jeez. Autumn snaps a picture of it on their phone, uploads. Rhiannon, her skin the colour of Greek yoghurt, is perched up on the sink’s edge, examining in pinches the tectonic rolls of fat around her waist.

  They grab a picture of her too.

  ‘Quit it.’ Rhiannon kicks out at the air, her other leg swinging down to the floor, a load-bearing leg. ‘Can we please not do the SAC post-mortem? I have bombed, Tum. Bombed. And I don’t need any lip from you about it.’

  Autumn watches Rhiannon forage for fluff in her belly button and thinks of ‘navel gazing’.

  Can they ask her? ‘Can I ask you something?’

  They hope Rhiannon won’t laugh—she won’t. Probably. Shit. She might vlog about it though:

  What I Said When My Mate Asked Me For DrUgS: Smol Innocent Cinnamon Roll C O R R U P T E D.

  Autumn’s not sure what they’re more afraid of: being caught; or being laughed at.

  Rhiannon doesn’t look up. ‘Look, I studied, o’right? I swear, I went home with all my books, was the goodest of good girls. I read five whole—’

  ‘Meant about weed.’

  She looks up then. ‘Weeds?’

  ‘No, y’know, like… marijuana?’ Tetrahydrocannabinol and cannabinol.

  There’s a full second there where neither of them says anything.

  Then, Rhiannon’s expression splits, lighting her up from inside. ‘OM-Effen-G, Tum.’ She buries her phone in the side of her bra, leaning far enough forward to tip completely off the sink. ‘That’s priceless.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Nah, it’s like, thirty bucks or something, right? But the first pressing issue here is, why you asking me?’

  ‘You’re… worldly,’ Autumn tries, ignoring the fact that they couldn’t exactly ask anyone else. ‘Dunno. Do you know who I should be asking, then?’

  ‘A psychiatrist.’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘You know Sheridan Connelly?’

  Autumn can’t say they know Sheridan Connelly even though everyone knows Sheridan Connelly. Knows of him, really, is the better way to put it, ’cause knowing a person isn’t just knowing their name.

  ‘He’s in Twelve,’ Rhiannon goes on, ‘wears them boots, has a fringe like this.’ She cuts one finger straight across her forehead, covering her brows.

  ‘Yeah, I seen him.’

  Rhiannon shrugs. ‘Yeah, well, he’d know.’

  ‘He’d know or he’d be holding?’

  ‘“Holding”? Effen-heck, Tum, what have you been watching?’ Rhiannon hikes one knee up to her chest. As she shakes her head, the rest of her wriggles. ‘Seriously, though, promise if you get anything, you’ll share.’

  The bell goes, Autumn heads out the bathroom door as Rhiannon jumps to her feet.

  ‘’M serious. Like, I’ve never tried it, right? Y’know, there’s just some things you’ve gotta try once isn’t there? Like, your dad, y’know, you said he used to—’

  Autumn speed-walks past the group playing handball near the steps. They dodge the ball when it flies to them, don’t stop or try to fling it back. The second bell goes, a demand now, not a warning.

  Rhiannon catches up. ‘You didn’t even think about it, did you?’ she asks.

  ‘It?’

  Her face is a look. ‘Giving it a try?’ She mimes turning her head to blow smoke away with two fingers pressed to her lips. Her hands flash with nails, acrylic ones she’s painted with glitter. They click as she gestures and it’s weirdly soothing. Autumn kind of wishes they could grow out their own stubs, but they keep eating them.

  ‘Autumn?’

  They bury the ends of their nails into their palm, the sensation barely penetrating. They think of their dad. ‘It’s—I’m not into that.’

  They should talk to Rhiannon, they know they should talk to Rhiannon, but they won’t, don’t and, instead, think about whether it’s possible to jump out of their life, out of their own skin.

  Now

  The vein in Sir’s neck pulses like a blue-tongue on a rock. He asks, walking a little way ahead of Autumn, if they know why they’ve been called out of class.

  Autumn doesn’t know and says as much.

  Sir’s brow-ridge is huge when he looks at them over his shoulder. ‘No?’

  Autumn scratches at a freckle that might be dirt. ‘No, sir.’ Sir hums.

  It’s a quiet walk down H-Wing, everyone pretty much in class. Fl
anked on either side by hundreds of beige lockers, Autumn drags their feet with their head down, hands curled around their shoulder straps. Fight or flight, they’re faster than Sir, they could run. It might not be anything though, it might be—

  Sir stops. ‘Autumn, your locker, please.’

  Another non-question. Autumn takes him to it.

  Sir says, ‘Open it, please.’

  So, they do.

  Then

  Rhiannon messages right after class asking if Autumn wants her to go with them but, feeling a little like they’re in a Marvel movie, Autumn sends back: No. I need to do this by myself.

  However, heading towards the back of the oval, they feel as though they could’ve used an assembled team to get through this.

  Autumn lets out a breath, their body is tight, as though they’re on the edge of something—a building, a ledge… tears, maybe?

  There are teachers out on duty—there are always teachers out. Autumn’s never really paid them that much attention, not during lunch and breaks. Attention is for class, for assembly, breaks are for Rhiannon and, depending on any upcoming SACs, study.

  Breaks aren’t for this. For breaking the law like this.

  There’s a lacka band ball fit to bursting in Autumn’s chest.

  There are lines their dad seems to have privately made between them and his past. He tells them that he’s done drugs before, but never really gives details. He doesn’t skip the edibles he ate with mates before his Year 11 formal, but doesn’t ever really say what it was like. Autumn supposes he doesn’t want to make drugs sound good, but all those stories are, admittedly, the exciting ones.

  None of this has been exciting so far.

  Autumn’s nerve endings feel fried.

  Rhiannon sends them a message saying Sheridan’s down the back of the oval.

  Of course, Autumn texts back—because where else would Sheridan be?—and gets back Smartarse, in response.

  They stand there off the oval, looking down it, looking around. Footy players, students, trees, no teachers. Footy players, students, trees, still no teachers. Autumn’s regressed to all kneecaps and tension. They smooth out their shorts, their shirt. The lacka band ball in their chest coils tight. Flexes.

  They know there’s a difference between being a smartarse and being intelligent and, to be honest, they’re not exactly sure where Sheridan Connelly stands on that spectrum, metaphysically, that is, but they have a working theory: intelligent people do well in school and don’t break the law on school property. Smartarses stand against the back fence on the oval, under the shade of some gums.

  Sheridan’s there, on his phone, but his chin is lifted. He’s watching Autumn stomp through the weeds and gumnuts to get to him, giving the sloppy footy players a wide berth. Sheridan’s about as thin as Autumn, taller, though, with long hair pulled back from his face by a hair tie, showing off a fringe you could rule lines with. Every part of his clothing some faded shade of black.

  He’s not a bad guy, Autumn thinks, just not the type they’d ever hang out with. Talk to. Meet eyes as they pass each other in the hallway.

  But now they’re gonna have a go at all three.

  Sheridan taps something out on his phone. ‘Hey,’ he says and smiles a cortisol grin. His mouth is all braces. He’s got a rubber tie on either side of his teeth, one purple, the other blue. Kind of distracting when he speaks. They stand out against all the black.

  ‘Uhh, hey,’ Autumn says.

  So far. So good.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Ummm.’

  Abort. ABORT.

  Sheridan’s phone sounds and, without looking away, his thumb moves across the screen. His hold on it is loose—there are plastic spines poking out through his fingers. His phone case looks deadly.

  ‘Nice case.’ The words come out of Autumn without them really thinking about it. They reach for their own phone as a coping mechanism. ‘Love the, uh, the pseudo-hipster-post-punk-wave thing.’

  Autumn’s phone doesn’t have a cover, just a protective screen, already shattered in one corner. They thumb at the spot where sticky tape meets glass, stare down at it.

  It’s in looking up that they realise Sheridan is watching them, the corners of his mouth upturned.

  He’s amused. Shit, but words pour from Autumn’s throat, a leaky tap in the night. ‘Wanna get one for, uh, my phone! Maybe… something nice, umm… y’know, dark though, stainless steel or…’ Are steel phone cases even a thing? A thing Sheridan would be into? They have no idea. Autumn puts a hand to their collarbone, feeling skinny and cold. Young. ‘Or something that has something on the side? I dunno, a skull or something, umm—’

  ‘Don’t cut yourself on your own edge, mate,’ says Sheridan.

  Autumn’s mouth shuts with a painful snap. Has it been five minutes or five hours since they opened their mouth and catapulted all credibility into the sun?

  Sheridan just looks at them, his smile toothy. ‘Did you… want something? Or?’

  ‘Or,’ Autumn blurts.

  Sheridan waits.

  ‘Umm…’ There are no alarms yet. The closest kids to them are the guys playing footy, suitably distracted. They can’t see a teacher around, don’t know who they should be looking out for on duty anyway. They’ve never had to be worried about being caught at anything before. Damn it, they should have checked with Rhiannon.

  ‘Was, uhh, I need a… some pot?’

  Nothing. The footy guys are still chasing each other; Robbo, from their English class, does a specky and the world doesn’t end. There are no sirens, no alarms, Miss doesn’t drop out of a gumtree to cart them off to Sir.

  Autumn doesn’t feel like any less of a good person for asking.

  Sheridan makes a noise that’s kind of caught in a knot between his mouth and his nose, a light gurgle. ‘Pot?’

  It’s work, not to ask him to keep his voice down. ‘Y’know, marijuana. Specifically.’

  Sheridan laughs. ‘I know, marijuana specifically. It’s just… funny.’ He eyes Autumn more closely then, finally getting it. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Loads,’ Sheridan says. He doesn’t elaborate.

  Autumn gives in. ‘’M’only a year below you.’ Technically, this is true, as most of Autumn’s classes are VCE Units 1 and 2.

  Sheridan nods, shrugs, and his hands sink out of sight. Autumn can see the bulge of his phone in his pocket. ‘All right, then.’ He kicks off from the fence and trudges back up the oval.

  Autumn spins around after him. ‘Wait—’

  But Sheridan just says, ‘Not here.’ He jerks his chin in the direction of the goal posts to where… Mrs Johnson is standing. Watching them.

  Shit.

  ‘Out front, at lunch. We’ll go to my place.’ Sheridan walks on ahead as if he’s alone.

  Now

  People in movies always have crap in their lockers. Autumn has almost nothing. Their locker door is close to falling off, by the looks of it. They eye the silver snarl of a detached hinge up the back as Sir rips it further open. Inside, there are books because, umm, school. Some folders, a jumper, their last art assessment they’ve been meaning to take home but haven’t, rolled up with a lacka band.

  ‘Well-utilised I see,’ Sir says, and it’s gotta be sarcasm… right? Autumn isn’t sure. Can principals even do that?

  They nod anyway. It’s not like they don’t use their locker, or don’t care, it’s just that every time they open it, there’s something weirdly satisfying about the absence in it, something about the hollowness and the assurance that Autumn doesn’t need a lot in the first place, that they can survive without, that makes them want to scoop everything else out too. Make it entirely empty.

  Sir reaches inside and gathers everything up in his arms: books, Autumn’s jumper, their rolled artwork.

  ‘Come with me, please,’ he says, without looking back. Autumn’s gut drops to their toes.

  They follow Sir
to his office, where he asks them to sit down. Autumn does as Sir goes about the room, locking his door and adjusting the blinds till the sun is reduced to faint slits on the carpet. Autumn feels bad for his potted plants.

  Pits and pores starting to gush, they sit and watch Sir sit too. He quietly begins to rummage about in their things, unrolling their artwork, smoothing it, unzipping zippers and turning pockets inside out.

  Without looking up, he asks, ‘Do you know what I’m looking for, Autumn?’

  Yeah. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Drugs,’ he says.

  Autumn shifts in their seat, placing their arms around their waist, at the bulge there. Their voice cracks. ‘Sir?’

  Sir says nothing, opening the small side pocket in Autumn’s folder filled with slips of paper.

  Autumn’s temples throb, colour floods their face. ‘I—I don’t have, sir. I don’t have—have anything.’

  The way Sir looks at them is all brows.

  They stew while he searches. Should they—what do liars sound like? Nervous? Scared? Confident in their innocence? Whichever way liars sound, Autumn wants to sound the opposite, but they can feel themself spiralling. Thighs squelching, sweaty on the seat beneath them, uncertainty stripping their confidence.

  ‘We shall see.’ Done with the things he collected from their locker, Sir extends one hand out for Autumn’s backpack. ‘I’m not… unsympathetic to the… rough time you’re going through Autumn,’ he begins as they hand it over and—

  Nope. No. Autumn’s got that GIF in their head of the octopus just bolting.

  ‘I’m not going through anything, sir,’ they cut in, looking at the blinds over Sir’s shoulder. ‘I’m fine.’

  Sir doesn’t even falter with the zipper, but he doesn’t look up at them either. ‘Yes. Well.’

  Their backpack is almost Rob Liefeld-ian, having grown about a hundred pockets. Pens get spilled out across Sir’s desk, scraps and folded paper, dried-up textas. Autumn’s notes and notebooks get piled on top of one another. There’s a charger cord, half-chewed headphones, and an old apple core. A bottomless backpack, a few minutes stretching out into a hundred hours. Autumn dies and lives and dies again, just them and Sir, whose expression sours as he turns the front pocket inside out.