My Private Pectus (6 page)

I sit on the couch as Roger Pask and Dad go through insurance paperwork at the kitchen table. Normally when Roger comes over I retreat to my bedroom because he likes to ask me questions about school and girlfriends. I hate talking about school and never have girlfriends. This time he gets me before I have the chance.

‘Jack!' he calls.

I look up.

‘Got a girlfriend yet?' he asks.

I don't move.

‘Oh c'mon, mate, you know I'm not serious,' he says. I let that go by in silence as well. ‘Jeeesus, Brian, that boy of yours,' he says to Dad. Then he calls out again. ‘Could ya get us something to eat?'

I gesture at the kitchen, but he says, ‘We're working here. Help us out for a second, would ya?'

Dad raises his gaze from the paperwork.

I get up and head into the kitchen. I open a cupboard and stare at the half-empty shelves and out-of-date packages. ‘What do you want?' I ask and turn around. Roger chews his tongue, considering.

‘Crackers and dip. Have you got any cheeses?' I look at Dad and Roger suggests, ‘Camembert?'

‘Beer?' I say, pretending I don't know better, and pull a six pack of Fourex Gold from the fridge.

‘Yeah, that too,' Roger says. But when I hand him a stubby and nothing else he pulls a face like I've forgotten something. He sucks his lips in momentarily then takes his mobile from his trouser pockets. It's dainty in his huge hands. He uses his pinkie to dial. He gets through, stares out the window and talks, one hand on his hip. After a while he hangs up. ‘Pizza's coming,' he says much louder than he needs to.

‘What do I owe you?' Dad asks.

Roger laughs him off then flicks through some more paperwork.

Dad met Roger in 1977 while they were both in the army. They ended up serving in the same unit—Roger a few ranks above. Going by the bits and pieces Dad has said in the past, Roger liked him right from the start. He was committed, showed loyalty. Years later when Mum and Dad split up, Roger told Dad he admired a soldier who could bring up a boy on his own. Dad wasn't just a good soldier; he was a model for society. I became the Pasks' surrogate nephew. After Dad's accident and the onset of his migraines, Roger took it on himself to help Dad get through. Roger got him posted to a cushier job. When the army doctors weren't convinced, Roger wrote fitness reports about Dad's bad health. And now he dishes off work for Dad even though he doesn't need to. It's Roger's way to help out. So there are plenty of reasons to like Roger, and no doubt I would—if he wasn't such a knob.

The pizza takes forever to arrive and I think that's great because we won't have to pay. But when the delivery guy rocks up—dressed in trousers and a button-up shirt, driving a turbo-diesel Volkswagen—Roger slaps him a fifty. I wait for the change. Nothing. These must be some pizzas. Moments later they're on the table—spirals of cheese and sour cream on one, delicately placed mussels in open shells on the other. I look at Dad in disbelief.

‘Best grub in town,' Roger tells us and gives us a slice each. We use scrap paper as plates. I suck out a mussel then flick the shell at Knight Rider.

‘Jack belted this kid up at school the other day,' Dad says all of a sudden with disappointment pasted all over his face. Then he starts re-telling Roger my incident with Cuppas in the dunny.

Roger, however, holds his lips tight to conceal a grin. ‘How'd it all start?'

Dad shrugs and looks to me to set things straight. Buoyed by Roger's half-hearted response, I start out with confidence, but when I tell him I was waiting to get into the cubicles, he screws his face and says, ‘Why'd you wanna go in there?'

‘ To get changed.'

‘Changed?' he says like it's the dumbest thing he's ever heard.

‘I wanted privacy.'

‘Privacy?' He puts his pizza down. ‘What's your problem? You're all blokes. You've all got the same packed lunch!'

‘Packed lunch,' I say and snigger.

He grins. ‘That's what we called it back in my army days. Packed lunch, isn't that right, Brian?' and he punches Dad in the bicep.

Dad gives Roger a stern look. ‘What?' Roger says. ‘Just saying the facts.'

‘Thanks, Rog,' Dad says, but as he shifts his attention back to me, Roger goes on.

‘And I packed more than you!' he bellows. He bends over and slaps his thighs amid howls of laughter.

‘Do you mind?' Dad says to him.

‘Ooooh, touchy,' Roger says and shoots me a wink.

‘Tell Roger what happened next,' Dad prompts me.

I look at Roger for support, but the moment's passed. ‘What does it matter?' I ask.

Dad puts his beer down.

I stare momentarily at the pizza, my appetite gone. ‘The boys were cracking Cuppas with the towel and I was trying to leave,' I lie, ‘but The P grabbed me and put the towel in my hand.' Dad's eye twitches as he watches me. ‘It's not like I wanted it,' I say.

Roger purses his lips, probably trying to imagine the scene. ‘Who's The P?' he asks.

I mumble, ‘Dale Petersen.'

‘Dale,' Roger spits. ‘Sounds like a pansy.'

‘Oh, no he's not,' Dad says. ‘Dale's good. Real good. You should see him go.'

‘He's a moron,' I say.

‘Watch your lip!' Dad orders.

Roger chuckles into his fist.

‘Well he is. He's the one who started it.'

‘And you're the one who continued it,' Dad says. ‘You should've seen him, Roger. He went at that kid like a piñata. Imagine fronting up to that kid's parents and telling them it was my boy who covered their son with welts. Imagine that!'

‘It wasn't just me!'

Finally the scene dawns on Roger: ‘There was a heap of you against one kid?'

‘He asked for it. He called me a poof,' I say.

‘He didn't?' Roger says, but then his face changes, like he's suddenly realised the most terrible fact. ‘You're not … are you?'

‘No!'

Roger crosses his arms, his brow furrowed. He turns to Dad. ‘And the teacher, was he there?'

‘Maloney?' Dad pushes his beer away. ‘You know what he said? He said I've no right to go off at the boys like I did. No right. Can you believe it?'

‘Why's that?' Roger asks.

‘He reckons when it comes to discipline, that's his job. He's the teacher, he said. Some bloody teacher.' Dad reaches for his beer again. ‘He said I've got to take it to the principal. Get him to sort it out. I'm not allowed to take things into my own hands.' Dad sways his head from side to side with sarcasm. ‘What am I meant to do, Rog? How do they expect me to coach a team of feral teenagers without giving them a rev from time to time?'

‘Have you told him what you think?' Roger asks.

Now that the focus has shifted from me I see it as an opportunity to leave. ‘I'm going to my room,' I say.

‘No you're not!' Dad yells. ‘I'm not done yet.'

I sit down heavily.

‘What's the school going to do?' Roger asks.

‘Nothing!' Dad says. ‘I told Maloney he can shove his discipline! I sorted those boys out, let me tell you.'

Roger takes a bite from his pizza and chews slowly, looking at Dad.

‘Maloney said my methods will ruin team spirit,' Dad goes on.

Roger spits an olive seed into his palm. ‘Maybe you should take it higher,' he says. ‘Do what that Maloney says.'

‘What?' Dad cries.

‘Think about it, Brian. It's the start of the season, you've got to mould the team how you want them. Right now you've got the boys worried, but not too worried. They think all this punishment is over, am I right?'

‘Course they do, but I bet they're still worried. Jack's still hurting from his punishment.'

Roger looks at me. ‘Push-ups?' he asks.

I nod.

He turns back to Dad. ‘Crikey, Brian, you don't change, do you? You've got no imagination. It was always push-ups.'

Dad's shoulders dip.

‘Listen, this is what I'd do,' Roger says. ‘I'd do what this Maloney says. Tosser or not, just go ahead with it. You'll get him respecting you, and you'll show the boys you won't take any rubbish, that you're willing to take things to the General, so to speak. The Principal will see you as reliable and responsible and the boys will be packing their daks every time you open your mouth. Go to the top,' he says and points to the ceiling.

Dad looks like a kid who's just been shown the error of his ways. He sits and rubs the scar on the back of his neck.

‘Even better,' Roger goes on, ‘make Jack go with you. Get him to own up.'

I gasp. ‘No way!'

‘That'll show him you're serious about it. You won't have a discipline problem then,' Roger says.

‘You're right,' Dad says. ‘Mate, I think you're right.'

I'm on afternoon detention and Sam has just walked in. I haven't talked to her since that day at Westfields. There's been the odd nod in each other's direction, recognition that never happened before, but nothing more than that. The last thing I want is to give her or anyone else the wrong impression.

Dad told Hassold what I did to Cuppas, just like Roger suggested. He tried to drag me along, but when we got to school I just racked off in the other direction. But that's still the reason why I'm sitting here, along with The P and Steve. All of us on the footy team got summoned together in the sports shed after our second training run. I think I dropped every ball that came my way. Then Hassold came in to make matters worse.

He gave us a real blast. He's got a squeaky voice like Elmer Fudd—until he gets wound up. Then he booms and his voice vibrates your bones. Cuppas stood on his own, smiling to himself, while the rest of us got sprayed with verbal diarrhoea. Dad was nearby, his arms crossed. Maloney was in the doorway. They looked chuffed with Hassold's performance. But neither of them saw Cuppas giving me the bird. Steve, The P and I copped two days of afternoon detention for our efforts.

Gez pulled me aside afterwards. ‘Is that what really happened?' I couldn't believe Cuppas hadn't told him the full details.

I nodded.

‘Bloody hell, Sticks, what did Cuppas do to you?'

‘He spat on me and called me a poof. He deserved it.'

‘Deserved it? He had half the team holding him back while you beat up on him. What the hell would you say in that situation?'

I wasn't keen to talk about it. ‘I gotta go to class,' I said.

I watch Sam as she talks to the detention teacher at the front of the classroom, then she turns and smiles in my direction, just like she did at Ryan's place. She waves and I wave back, which sets The P and Steve off in whispers. Pretending to ignore them, I watch Sam from the corner of my eye. She takes a seat, pulls her mobile from her pocket and starts to text someone. At the sound of the beeps, the teacher looks up and Sam quickly stuffs her phone under her leg, but as she does so, she catches the edge of her skirt, pulling it up to reveal the pock-marked skin of her thigh. She covers it with her hand, wriggles, and pulls the skirt back down. The teacher comes over and I think for sure she's busted. But with the teacher there, I can stare in an obvious way without copping flak from Steve and The P, so I do. But the teacher doesn't ask about Sam's phone, instead she lectures Sam on how a lack of respect for the school uniform shows a lack of respect for the school. So that's why Sam's here: uniform detention. It looks fine to me. How can the girls get it wrong anyway? It's not like they have socks to pull up or shirts to tuck in.

I wait for a lecture too, but it doesn't happen, so I take a magazine from my bag and get told to put it back. I sit and stare at the clock, figuring boredom to be the mode of punishment for the day. Sam looks over at me and rolls her eyes at the silence. I want to laugh, but I keep a straight face because of the guys. She goes back to reading the graffiti on her desk and twisting her ponytail around a finger.

An hour later I get dismissed. I'm first out because I was the first one there. I can't be arsed walking home so I decide to wait for the bus. A few minutes later Steve and The P come out and sit next to me.

‘Did you see her leg?' Steve says and screws up his nose.

‘Cellulite dump,' The P says. ‘Imagine touching it.'

‘Woooaaagh.' Steve shakes his hands at the thought.

The P turns to me. ‘Did you see it?' he says.

‘No,' I say.

‘Yeah, whatever,' he says. ‘I saw you gawking.'

Steve laughs. ‘Yeah, you got a real eyeful. Even looked back for more.'

‘Rack off,' I say. ‘She's a tart.'

‘You bet,' Steve says. ‘Remember when she screwed that guy from Beenleigh?'

It happened at a party last year. Sam was off her face and got with some guy who rocked up with his emo posse. No St Phil's chick can get with a guy from Beenleigh and not be labelled a loose slag. They were sucking face for hours in the laundry. Right or wrong, everyone knows she bonked him. The next Monday at school there were photos of them above the drink troughs and boys' urinal. Beenleigh's hand was up her skirt.

‘You coming?' The P asks as the bus pulls in.

‘I'm gonna walk,' I say. The thought of having to listen to their rot all the way home has made me change my mind.

‘Suit yourself,' he says and they both get on board.

I think about Sam and wonder how much longer she'll be in there. It seems unfair she's in so long just for her uniform. Still, she won't have to face up again tomorrow. I think about that smile she shot me, the wave, like she was genuinely happy to see me. I pull my shoulders back.

‘You've missed it you know.' I look up. She's standing at the end of the bench seat.

‘I know.'

She reaches for her hair, plays with it as she had in detention. ‘Then why are you waiting?'

I shrug and watch as she takes two huge loop earrings from her bag. She threads them into her lobes like J Lo.

‘So that's how you got uniform detention?' I ask.

She gives me that grin again.

‘I was thinking,' I say, then stop, not sure if I should go on.

‘What about?'

Then it just spills out of my mouth, like it went to my tongue, but not my brain. ‘Walking home with you.'

‘Walking me home?'

‘No!' I blurt. ‘Walk home
with
you, not walk
you
home.'

She lifts her eyebrows at me. ‘And the difference is?'

It's too late to dig myself out of this mess, but in my nervous attempt to change the topic I dive into something potentially worse: ‘Pity about not getting included in the footy team.' I cringe immediately, thinking she's probably furious about her name getting on the sheet.

‘Yeah, great pity,' she says sarcastically. ‘I was pinning my dreams on that.' She laughs and pulls on the strap of her bag.

Pleased things went all right, I decide to go on with it. ‘I could have a word with the coach if you like. After all, I've got connections.'

She purses her lips. ‘And what would you say?'

‘I'd say you've got—' Is she aware of the way I'm looking at her? Scanning her body, neither impressed nor repelled. ‘I'd say you've got a good tackle.'

‘A good tackle?' she says, then peers up and down the street as if wanting to leave. Yep, she noticed.

‘And how do you know that?' she asks, turning back to me.

‘I dunno,' I say and shuffle my feet nervously, ‘but I'd have to say something, otherwise you wouldn't get a run.'

She looks up and down the street again. ‘Which way?'

I point down the hill.

‘Lucky,' she says.

‘Why's that?'

‘If you want to walk me home, we both have to go the same way,' she says and starts off. I leap from the bench seat, pick up my bag and lope after her, wondering how far we'll get before our paths separate.

‘What position would I play?' she asks, looking up at me.

I give her a confused look.

‘On the team,' she says.

‘Oh right.' I think: she's shortish, definitely not petite, not huge either, but solid, like a hooker on a footy team. And then I say it, ‘Hooker.'

‘Thanks a lot.'

‘No. I mean. Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.'

‘Then how do you mean it?'

‘I mean,' but I stop before I make things worse. ‘The hooker is a position on the team. He's often at dummy half. Always in the action.'

‘Dummy what? Is this some dirty joke?'

‘No!' I raise my hands in desperation. ‘I'm trying to—' but give up.

She stops walking. ‘Trying to what?'

‘Explain the position. Have you got a ball?' She looks at me and I realise how stupid the question is. Despite this, she takes her bag off and rummages through it.

‘Nope. Forgot it,' she says, her head practically submerged.

I think again. ‘What about an apple, an orange?'

‘No. No.'

‘Hang on.' I put my bag down and pull out a bruised apple of my own. ‘Let's pretend this is the ball.'

‘Bit small, isn't it?'

‘That's why I said
pretend
.'

She smiles. ‘Okay. The apple is the ball. Got it. What next, Einstein?'

‘Um.' I look about. I feel good, feel nervous. ‘Pretend I'm the person doing the play-the-ball.'

‘Play the ball?'

I'm getting nowhere. ‘Let's pretend I've been tackled, right?'

‘By who?'

‘By anyone. By the opposition,' I say. ‘There.' I point to a fence post. ‘That's the opposition player.' I stand in front of the post, bend over and put the apple under my foot, mimicking the position of the play-the-ball. ‘The hooker often goes at dummy half—that's behind me—and picks up the ball, runs with it or passes.'

‘You want me to pick up the apple?' she asks.

‘It's the ball, remember.'

‘While you're bending over?'

‘C'mon.'

‘With my head near your butt?'

‘Just pick it up.'

‘Forget it,' she says and picks up her bag. ‘What other positions are there?'

I toss the apple into a bush. ‘There's the bench,' I mutter.

Whacking me on the arm, she says, ‘I know what that means.' She starts walking again. I laugh and catch up. She's trying to keep a straight face. I'm not sure what to say next, so I listen to our feet slap on the concrete as we head down the hill. My heart is thumping. I can't believe I'm so worked up over one stupid conversation with a girl I don't want to like.

She slows as we pass an old house on stilts that has peeling paint and rusting gutters. The place is famous in the suburb for its array of junk. It's surrounded by a yard of long grass, strewn with old planks of timber, corrugated iron sheets, metal pipes and other piles of useless stuff. Even beneath the house, in between the stilts, there's junk piled up.

She rests her hands on the flaking white paint of the fence. ‘I've always wanted to go in there,' she says. ‘See what stuff he's got.'

‘Why haven't you?'

She shrugs. ‘Have you seen the owner? He looks like a pervert.'

‘Charlie's harmless, you know.' Dad and I refer to the owner as Charlie the Hoarder. We don't know his real surname. ‘I go there sometimes with my old man.'

‘Really? What for?'

I rest my hands on the fence, next to hers. She doesn't edge away. ‘Dad gets excited about things sometimes, goes into building frenzies. He doesn't usually finish anything, but.'

‘What does he build?'

‘He's building an aviary at the moment.'

‘What for?'

‘Birds.'

‘Duh, what kind of birds?'

‘Finches.'

She looks at me critically.

I feel stupid for saying it and go on the defensive. ‘Hey, it's Dad's idea, not mine.'

‘So the football coach of St Phil's breeds finches? Sounds kinda soft, don't you think?'

‘Yeah,' I say, ‘but, he hasn't started yet.'

‘I'd like to see them.' She looks up at me. ‘Once he's got some.'

Did she just invite herself over?

‘Sure,' I say, but not really meaning it. I wonder what she'd think of our house, of Dad? He'd probably be on the couch, comatosed by a migraine and Panadeine Forte, or doing Sportsbet on the laptop.

We walk again and settle into a comfortable chatter. She tells me about her weekend job at a Gloria Jean's café in the city, how her parents don't like her going there on her own. But as we get to a street corner about three blocks from home, she stops and asks, ‘What were you really waiting for?'

Now it's me re-positioning the straps of my bag. ‘For you,' I say, finally sure I'm telling the truth.

She crosses her arms.

‘Is that so hard to believe?' I ask.

She drops her eyes and shrugs. ‘Yeah. Kind of.' There's only a hint of a smile. ‘I live up there,' she says and jinks her head at the street. ‘I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?'

‘Tomorrow,' I say.

‘See you, then,' she says and turns away.

I watch for a while, noting the houses, wondering which one is hers. Then I start off home before she can turn and catch me staring.