After (7 page)

‘The chooks?’

‘Yeah. Have you forgotten? Your mural is next to the chook yard.’

‘Oh. The chook yard used to be over near the stables, opposite the woolshed.’

‘What near the tree house?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Guess a few things have changed since you were here.’

Mum took a slow breath. ‘So, how are you doing, Ceej?’

‘I’m showering, changing my jocks every day, brushing my teeth and eating my vegetables.’

‘I meant, how are you feeling, about what happened. About—’

‘Fine.’ I had to cut her off before she said his name.

‘Have you talked about what happened? Have you talked—?’

As if I didn’t have enough to deal with. ‘I said, I’m fine.’

‘CJ, you need to talk about it. About—’

My heart hammered against my chest. ‘I have to go.’ I hung up.

I gripped the bench. Maybe if I thumped something, kicked the highlights out of the cupboard, I could stop it. Saliva filled my mouth. I bolted to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

Up until now, every time someone—Mum, Christos, that counsellor, Bev—tried to make me talk about Nic, I vomited. But not any more. I fought the feeling with everything I had. I turned on the cold tap and splashed water over my face and neck. The feeling slithered away.

Nan rapped on the bathroom door. ‘Callum? Callum? Is that running water I can hear? Turn that tap off immediately. We’re in the middle of a drought, don’t you know.’

As if she hadn’t mentioned that a thousand times.

‘Bugger off,’ I muttered as I dried my face and hands.

‘What are you doing?’ The door wobbled against the frame. I knew she had her ear pressed up against it.

I crept close to the door and bellowed. ‘Taking a leak.’

I heard my grandmother gasp through the door. When I opened it, she stood in the middle of the hall.

‘And washing my hands.’

‘Right, well, mind your water use.’ She straightened her shoulders and stalked down the hall.

Stupid old cow. No wonder Grandpa hung out at the footy club so much. No wonder Mum hated her.

Bag slung over my shoulder, I walked down the path to the classroom. In the middle of the pavers stood Jack Frewen, Miffo, Matt and Klay.

‘You so cleaned him up, Frew,’ said Klay, beaming.

‘Yeah!’ Miffo re-enacted the tackle, tossing fresh air to the ground.

They had to be talking about the tackle in front of Grandpa and me. The way I saw it, it wasn’t a tackle to brag about. Frewen had monstered a kid half his size and at the same time terrified the rest of the opposition. I shook my head and walked around them.

‘Hey, Alexander, been freaked out by any sheep today?’ said Frewen, blocking my way.

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

Frewen jerked his chin at me.

‘Your grandfather reckons sheep freak you out.’

Klay, Miffo and Matt bellowed with laughter.

Anger and embarrassment rushed through me. Anger because Grandpa had spoken to Jack about me, and embarrassment because it was true—the sheep had freaked me out.

‘Poor Callum. Too scared to open the gate, in case the nasty sheep bite.’

‘Whatever, Frewen.’ I turned to walk to the classroom.

‘Scared of me too, Alexander? Ya coward,’ yelled Frewen.

I spun around and stepped towards him.

Frewen jumped back, his eyes wide.

‘See you in class, Jack,’ I said, strolling away, like he hadn’t got to me. But he had.

Maeve stood at the stove stirring paella when CJ walked into the kitchen. Christos was setting the table.

‘I’m starving,’ said CJ, flopping in the kitchen chair.

Maeve turned to face him, her mouth a thin line. ‘You’re late.’

‘Nic and I were trying out a new jump behind the library.’

Maeve shook her head.

‘CJ, we need to talk,’ said Christos.

‘Can we eat first? I’m starved.’

‘Dinner can wait,’ said Christos. He reached for an envelope from the top of the fridge.

Maeve turned off the gas and moved a chair around so she sat beside Christos, opposite CJ. When Christos placed the envelope on the table, CJ recognised the school emblem. A hundred tiny fish nibbled his insides.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Your school report arrived today,’ said Christos.

‘And?’

‘Remember the deal we made after Mr Burbridge came here to beg me to let you play footy with the senior team?’ asked Maeve.

‘Yeah—I could only play if my reports were good. I’ve been getting As and Bs.’

‘It’s the teachers’ comments that concern us,’ said Christos.

‘Us? What does this have to do with you?’

Maeve’s eyes flared. ‘CJ!’

The colour drained from Christos’s face. ‘Seeing as I help pay for your education and lifestyle, it has everything to do with me.’ He pulled the pages from the envelope, his jaw rigid.

CJ could see words had been underlined.

‘Wasted potential. A natural leader who misuses his talents. Lack of respect for self and others. Insensitive—’ When Maeve looked up, the hurt in her eyes made CJ squirm.

‘Come on, Mum,’ said CJ. ‘Callaghan picks on me.’

Mum sighed. ‘I haven’t read out Ms Callaghan’s comments yet.’

CJ rubbed a scratch on the table. ‘Who gives a stuff what teachers think, anyway?’

Christos slapped the table.

‘Take responsibility for your actions, CJ.’

‘Like you’d know,’ said CJ.

‘CJ!’ Maeve yelled. ‘After everything Chris does for you...’ Her hair was wilder than her eyes. ‘You go on and on about not being a little kid, yet you act like one. Grow up and stop behaving like a loud-mouthed bogan.’

‘What, and be a hippy bogan like you?’

Maeve recoiled as though he’d hit her.

‘Callum, you apologise—now,’ bellowed Christos.

‘I’m too insensitive to know how.’ CJ stomped out of the kitchen.

The entire school lined up in classes on the basketball courts—Prep at the front and us at the back. The teachers stood under the flagpole.

Ella Bennett leant against the Prep/One classroom, holding a CD player, its cord hanging out the window. Ella hit the stop button as the last few bars of ‘Advance Australia Fair’ blasted out the speakers. This was nothing like assemblies at my old school. No prayers, no lectures about uniform or behaviour at the bus stop and no Mr Spencer stalking at the edges, like a shark circling, ready to attack if anyone even twitched the wrong way.

Instead it was Student of the Week awards, a talk about throwing sand in the sand pit and a burst of ‘Happy Birthday’ for those dragged up the front and presented with birthday stickers and cards.

‘Have a lovely birthday, children,’ said Mrs Gray, watching the birthdayers wander back to their class groups. ‘Finally this morning, could Callum Alexander join me out the front please?’

Now what?

‘Hurry, Callum,’ said Mrs Gray, when I hadn’t moved.

I slunk around the edge of the basketball court and stood near Ella.

‘Over here, Callum. No need to be shy.’

Could it get any worse?

The Preps giggled. A rougher laugh rolled towards me from the back. Mrs Gray placed a hand on my shoulder, anchoring me to the spot. ‘I’m sure you’ve all seen Callum around school this last week.’

I cringed. Why didn’t she just draw a big, fat target on my back?

‘Callum is staying with his grandparents for ... a while.’

Frewen’s scoff made my skin prickle.

‘Would you like to tell us a little about yourself, Callum?’

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and focused on the asphalt. ‘I live in Melbourne with Mum.’

‘No shit, Sherlock.’ There was no disguising Luke’s voice.

There was a gasp, giggles then a roar of laughter.

‘Settle down, thank you,’ yelled Mrs Gray, her face red.

‘Proud of yourself?’ hissed Ms Nugent, as she stormed past.

She clapped her hands and bellowed. ‘Quiet. That will do, thank you.’

Mr Agar strolled forward and blew his whistle.

Mrs Gray raised her hand like a traffic policeman. The laughter died down. ‘On that note, I think we shall return to class. Preps first.’ Mrs Gray pushed up her jumper sleeves. ‘Luke Bennett, here please.’

I started to walk away.

‘Stay where you are, Mr Alexander.’

Luke ambled forward in his unco way, hands in his pockets and head bowed.

Mrs Gray folded her arms. ‘Luke, I’m—’

‘Sorry, Mrs Gray.’ The sorrow in his voice made me uncomfortable.

‘It’s not his fault, Mrs Gray. I said it in—’

Her raised hand stopped me. ‘I know. Luke, you know better than to call out, and you certainly know to watch your language.’

Luke shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

‘You will not use that word, or call out like that in assembly again. Are we clear?’

He nodded his head, hard.

‘Good. Now you two are on clean-up duty for the rest of the week.’

‘What?’ I kicked the ground. ‘That sucks!’

‘Suck as it may, Mr Alexander, that is what you shall be doing. Now, off to class.’

When I reached the classroom, Jack and Miffo leered out the window, clapping. I picked up my school bag and bowed like an actor. Beside me, Luke bowed too. Frewen and Miffo burst into laughter. Mr Agar appeared beside me, arms full of books. ‘Into class you clowns,’ he said, as though what was happening was a joke between friends.

I shook my head and followed.

Luke did the same.

Teeth gritted, I stomped up the steps.

Luke’s heavy footsteps echoed behind me.

Kids charged past my bench, yelling and laughing, on their way to the oval. Head down, I unwrapped the jam drops that were packed in my lunch.

‘We have to clean up.’ Luke stood over me, a gleaming metal bin in his hand.

‘You start without me.’

He shook his head. ‘We both have to do it. Mrs Gray said so.’

‘Listen Luke, Gray won’t know—’

‘No. Together. Now.’ He clenched and unclenched the hand not holding the bin. His hands were huge. I wondered what would happen if he seriously lost it.

‘Keep your hair on.’ I rewrapped the jam drops and slipped them in my pocket. ‘What do we do?’

‘Pick up papers. And other rubbish.’

I screwed up my face. ‘Gross.’

Luke did the same. ‘Gross.’

If he kept copying me I’d lose it for sure.

‘Start at the fence.’

Luke had it sussed. He held the bin, which meant I had to pick up the chip packets bleached by the sun, black banana skins and brown paper bags stained with sauce. I reached for a half-eaten muesli bar. ‘This sucks.’

Luke pointed under the primary portables. ‘There now.’

‘Are you kidding? No way am I going under there.’

‘Girl.’ Luke lumbered forward. He dropped to his stomach and inched beneath the portable, grunting with effort. He wriggled backwards and stood. Dried grass stuck out from his curly hair and clung to his jumper. Dirt and grass covered his front. He held an empty flavoured-milk carton and squishy piece of newspaper away from his body.

I almost gagged. ‘That stinks.’

Luke wiggled his eyebrows. ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

Even though I didn’t want to, I laughed.

He ambled forward and dumped the stuff in the bin. ‘Funny, huh?’

‘Luke, you can’t say that. You’ll get us into more trouble.’

He glanced around and shrugged. ‘No teachers.’

At lunchtime, Luke appeared before my bum hit the bench.

‘Let’s go,’ he said bin in hand, hopping from one foot to the other. He was like that stupid pink rabbit in the battery commercial—the rabbit that never stopped moving.

‘What about lunch?’ I asked, holding up my Vegemite and cheese sandwich.

‘Ate with Sheree.’ Luke had spent the last two periods working with his aide, Sheree. While Mr Buttera droned on about trigonometry, angles and the sides of triangles, I’d watched Luke lumber across the yard beside the tiny Sheree.

‘Well, mate, I haven’t eaten mine and I’m not eating while we pick up rotting food. That’s just unhygienic.’

Luke shuddered. ‘Eat first.’

I took a bite and chewed about 100 times. Luke stood over me, watching. After four bites, I gave up and chucked the rest of my lunch in the bin. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

Luke beamed and pointed to the primary block.

‘We haven’t finished there.’

‘Great.’

Luke was grovelling under the ramp outside the Year Two/Three class when his sister Ella bowled up to me. Her friends hung by the netball court, watching.

‘Luke’s right,’ said Ella, looking from me to Luke’s bum sticking up in the air. ‘You are a girl.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m guessing that’s an insult. Weird, seeing as you’re a girl.’

She folded her arms and thrust out her right hip. ‘Luke thinks you’re cool.’

‘Well, he’s got that wrong, hasn’t he?’

‘That’s what I told him.’

I stared her down. ‘Is there something you want to say?’

‘Just don’t mess with him, okay? He’s...’ Her face softened a little. ‘Be nice to him.’

My face burned. ‘Why wouldn’t I be nice to him?’

‘Because it’s obvious you’re a jock.’

‘You watch too much American TV.’

‘Hey, Ella, look at all the rubbish I found under here,’ said Luke, his hands full.

‘That’s great, Luke,’ said Ella, smiling. She had pretty eyes when she smiled. ‘Remember, Mum’s picking us up tonight, okay?’

He nodded. ‘I remember.’

I took the bin to him. ‘Good job, mate.’ When I looked up, Ella had rejoined her friends.

After lunch, Mr Agar swaggered into class, holding a netting bag filled with basketballs.

‘Basketball?’ groaned Frewen. ‘Why can’t we play footy?’ He was slouched against the window ledge.

‘It’s basketball or we work on the pulmonary system in class,’ said Mr Agar.

Frewen groaned. ‘Basketball sounds good.’

‘Right, to the courts.’

I stopped playing basketball in Year Six when game night clashed with soccer training. Since then, I’d only played at school, mainly Twenty-one. I used to beat Nic, easy. After everything that happened, I wished I’d stuck with basketball instead of soccer.

‘We’ll start with the basics,’ said Mr Agar, demonstrating how to dribble. It was more about him showing us how good he thought he was rather than teaching us anything. After we’d dribbled up and down the court, he showed us how to use the backboard correctly, then how to do lay-ups.

Frewen approached basketball like he did footy. He was all elbows and aggro. When Tim tried a lay-up, Frewen flattened him.

‘That’s a charge, Jack,’ said Mr Agar. His voice was stern, but I saw the glimmer of pride in his eye.

Frewen helped Tim up.

‘Okay, who’s up for Twenty-one?’ asked Mr Agar, standing under the ring, feet apart and hips forward.

‘You bet,’ said Frewen, glancing at me.

‘Do we have to play?’ asked Shelley, sitting cross-legged on the grass with Em.

The tall girl who sat behind Frewen shook her head. ‘You’re a blob, Shelley.’

‘That’ll do, ladies. Those who want to play, grab partner and line up.’

Frewen and Klay high-fived and strutted to Mr Agar. Miffo teamed up with Matt. I looked around for a partner to pair up with.

Tim? Maybe Vinnie?

Luke lumbered towards me, yelling. ‘Callum, hey, Callum.’ He was all arms and legs, like a Labrador puppy. His face was bright and his eyes twinkled. ‘Play Twenty-one with me, Callum.’

‘Nah, don’t think so, mate.’

‘Come on, Callum.’ He was just about vibrating. ‘You can go first.’

‘I’ll be right.’ I couldn’t look at his face.

‘Please?’

‘I said no.’ I yelled.

A hush fell over the class.

Luke curled into himself. The tall girl strutted over. She shot me a filthy look. ‘Be my partner, Benny,’ she said. ‘Please? The others are too short to play me.’

‘Okay, Grace,’ said Luke, nodding, but the light had gone from his eyes. Luke shuffled alongside Grace to where Frewen stood.

‘Nice one, moron,’ said Miffo.

‘Whatever,’ I said, trying to act like nothing had happened.

‘Alexander,’ called Mr Agar, his face hard to read. ‘You can play Frewen.’

‘Stuff that,’ said Frewen. ‘I’m playing Klay.’

‘And you’ll whip him as usual,’ said Mr Agar. ‘You need a challenge.’

What I didn’t get was why that challenge had to be me.

‘Sir, I—’

‘No arguments, Alexander. You two are up first.’

As I walked to the ring, Mr Agar rattled off rules. ‘First shot from the free-throw line—two points for a goal. Hit or miss, you have to rebound. If your opponent beats you to the ball, it’s their shot from the free-throw line. If you rebound your goal and score, it’s worth another point. Then it’s back to the free-throw line.’ Mr Agar bounced the ball between his legs. ‘No points for misses. First one to exactly 21 wins.’ He now spun the ball on his finger, a regular Harlem Globetrotter. ‘If you score more than 21, your score goes back to 13.’

‘But that’s not how we play,’ said Klay.

‘My class, my rules, Klay.’ Mr Agar tossed the ball at me, hard. ‘You’re up first, Alexander.’

Someone booed when I reached the free-throw line. Knees bent, I bounced the ball three times and threw. Goal. I ignored the boos and sprinted for the rebound, Frewen beat me. When Frewen scored, Miffo, Matt and Klay cheered, fists pumping the air. I hated to admit it, but Frewen had an easy shooting style. But like me, he missed the rebound.

We went goal for goal, acting like we didn’t care if we goaled or not, but we cared. When I missed a shot, the class cheered like crazy.

‘Score check,’ bellowed Mr Agar, circling us, whistle hanging from his neck. ‘Alexander 16. Frewen 18. Frewen’s shot.’

He missed. I was up. Sweat trickled down my back. I wiped my palms, one at a time, on my grey trousers. Frewen glared at me, back to the ring. I held his gaze and bounced the ball, five times. I shot as I breathed out. Goal.

Mr Agar was ready and waiting under the ring. He snatched the ball and held it to his side.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a contest,’ he said, in a TV sports reporter voice. ‘Winter Creek favourite, Jack Frewen, sits on 18 points.’ Everyone cheered. ‘Dark horse, Callum Alexander, also on 18 points.’

There was one cheer among the boos and hisses. Luke. It made me feel weird.

‘It’s Fabulous Frewen’s ball.’ Mr Agar handed the ball to Jack. ‘Sink it.’

Frewen strutted past me as I made my way to the ring. ‘Not such a hero now, Greenie.’ He jerked his head at the audience. ‘The retard’s your only friend.’

With my teeth gritted, I took a defensive stance under the ring. Frewen winked at Klay, bounced the ball once and shot. It dipped into the ring, and popped out. Right into my hands. I dribbled to the free-throw line. Frewen tried to knock the ball away, but I dodged around him easily. At the free-throw line, I bounced three times, shot and goaled. I sprinted forward, rebounding and scored again.

Luke cheered and clapped. Tim and Vinnie grinned. The rest of the class jeered. I tossed the ball to Mr Agar. He didn’t look at me. ‘Good game, Callum.’ The ancient bell echoed against the portables’ walls.

I turned to Frewen. ‘Hey, good contest...’ But he didn’t hear. He was half way to the classroom.

I leant against the fence between the car park and school, bag over my shoulder, waiting for Grandpa to pick me up.

‘Poppy picking up his little Callie, again,’ leered Frewen, flanked by Miffo and Klay.

I was over Frewen and his crap. ‘Yeah, that’s right, Frewen. Grandpa’s picking me up.’

‘Too precious to travel on the bus like the rest of us?’ said Miffo.

‘Yeah.’ I pushed off the fence.

‘Everyone reckons you’re up yourself, Alexander.’ Frewen stood in front of me. ‘You’re stuffed here. Go back where you belong.’

‘Want another game of Twenty-one tomorrow, Frewen?’ I strolled to the car before he could answer. I didn’t have to look back to know he was angry. I could smell it.

Jilly strained towards me from the back of the ute, ears up and tail wagging. I scruffed her behind the ears and dumped my bag in the back.