by Dave Leys
Brad grabbed one and handed it over. As he did, the whistle in his mouth made an involuntary wipp! and swung loose on the cord round his neck. Brad had just cast eyes on the most beautiful girl in the world.
There had been girls before, girls with long black hair, girls with soft eyelashes, girls with tiaras and bravado and exciting laughs, but not like this girl. She was the one to beat them all. She had brown hair in a pony tail, freckles and an infectious smile curled beneath her nose. Brad almost stumbled going up the steps to the porch, righted himself and handed her the paper.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘How much is it?’
Brad meant to speak softy to her but somehow it came out more like a squeak. ‘Two dollars.’
She looked at him strangely and handed him the money.
‘I’ve never seen you before,’ he said, ‘and I’ve lived round here all my life.’
‘We just moved here,’ she said airily. ‘My dad’s a fireman. He got a bravery award in South Australia, where we used to live. He put out a fire and saved two people from burning.’
‘I’m Brad,’ he said, louder this time, and held out his hand.
‘Uh-huh,’ she said, smiling again, and closed the door.
Brad walked slowly back to his cart and resumed his paper run. The two-dollar coin she had given him felt warm in his hand. The rest of the morning was a blur as Brad’s thoughts swirled around in his head so much that Bob (‘just call me Bob, son’) wondered why, when he tried to talk about the footy, Brad just looked at him with a goofy smile.
That night Brad had a strange dream. He was walking along the street when he saw a house on fire. He rushed up to it, found a ladder and climbed to the second storey and in through an open window. The girl he had met that morning was in the middle of the room, surrounded by flames, singing to herself. Brad grabbed her by the arm, led her back to the window, and they slid down the ladder and into a pool which had suddenly appeared in the front yard.
Brad woke up and stretched. He was obsessed. How could he learn her name? How could he impress her enough so that she would remember who he was?
Then he had an idea, the kind of idea that only comes along rarely, the kind of idea you have to sit on and hold down before it rushes out the door again. He would be a hero for her. Girls liked heroes. The only trouble was that Brad wasn’t actually very heroic. He liked the idea of being a hero, but he didn’t particularly like the practice of putting himself into danger, and as far as he could tell that was a crucial quality of heroes. Heroes risked things, important things like their own lives. You might say they were careless with their own lives. Brad, by contrast, was very careful. He had always been told it was bad to be careless.
Okay, so he didn’t have bravery or carelessness. But he did have something else – he had imagination, a computer, and a plan. He would make up a one-page newsletter called The Shetland Heights Gazette. He would write a news story in it about himself doing something heroic. To make it look authentic he would design an official looking masthead and even create some fake ads for babysitters and car washing services and put them down the side. Then he would slip The Shetland Heights Gazette into a newspaper and deliver that newspaper to her. And he would casually mention it to her so that she would be sure to read it.
Brad got out of bed, sat down at his computer and composed the following story:
Boy Saves Puppy from Flooded Creek
Yesterday morning Brad Busby, local boy aged eleven, showed extreme bravery when Russett Creek flooded and a small puppy named ‘Socks’ was washed away. Brad, thinking quickly and showing great courage and carelessness, jumped into the quick-moving water using a garbage bin as a raft, scooped up the frightened puppy and returned her to her owner. Local people describe Brad as a ‘hero’.
Brad printed it out and read it. Perfect. He toyed with the idea of adding a photo of himself holding a wet puppy but decided it was corny and left it.
When he next worked Brad raced to the newsagent, gave Mr Kominos a big smile, took the papers round the corner, stuck the newsletter into a Sun Herald and set off on his paper run. His whistle that morning seemed to blow with a special vigour and the breeze seemed to whisper to him, hero! Then he got to Wilson Street and began to have doubts. What if her father didn’t want the paper this week? What if he switched to The Sunday Telegraph?
But when he got to the corner it was just as he hoped. She was standing on the porch holding out her two dollars. Brad strode up to the porch, pulled out the special paper and handed it to her with a modest smile.
‘Here you go,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and began to shut the door.
‘By the way,’ he said quickly, ‘there’s a local supplement this week that comes free with the newspaper. It’s called The Shetland Heights Gazette. Just thought you might be interested.’
She looked at him quizzically, but the bait had been taken, and so the door stayed open and she leafed through the newspaper until she came to the newsletter.
‘Car washing services?’ she said. Her face turned down. ‘Why would I be interested in that?’ She began to close the door again but Brad held it open and pointed lower down the page. She began to read the article and then looked up at him, her eyes wide.
‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked.
‘Brad,’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember? Brad … Busby.’
‘So you …?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the puppy?’
‘All safe now. It was easy, actually,’ he began, and was about to describe in thrilling detail the fake rescue all over again when she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
‘My name’s Emma,’ she said, turning red in the cheeks. ‘See you next Sunday, hero.’
Brad floated back to his cart, his skin tingling where she had kissed it, and sleepwalked through the rest of the paper run. When Bob (‘just call me Bob, son’) began to talk to him, Brad mispronounced ‘football’ and it somehow came out as ‘beautiful’.
During the week, the doubts returned. What if she got bored with him or met someone else? He had not only to maintain his image of heroism in her eyes, he had to increase it. So he wrote another news story for the second edition of The Shetland Heights Gazette.
Local Boy Saves Baby from Runaway Car
Last night local hero, Brad Busby, once again showed how heroic he is. He saw a small baby in the middle of the road outside his house and a runaway car skidding towards it. Thinking nothing of his own life Brad ran out onto the road, picked up the crying baby and jumped off to the other side. Local people said this made Brad even more heroic than before, and he was already pretty heroic.
Brad read it and grinned with pleasure. That was sure to work.
On his next shift everything went as planned. He took the papers, stuck the newsletter in, walked down Wilson Street and found her on the front porch waiting for him. This time she was dressed in a yellow dress with white spots on it and her hair was fanned out over a golden comb.
‘Hi, Brad,’ she gushed.
‘Your Herald, darl, complete with local supplement,’ he said, handing her the paper.
She grabbed the paper, found the newsletter, read the article and put a hand to her heart.
‘My hero,’ she sighed, taking his hand in hers. ‘That poor little baby.’
‘All fine now,’ he said in his deepest voice. ‘Back in her mother’s arms. Sound asleep. Under a blanket.’
She looked up at him, batted her eyelashes, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. She stroked his hand and whispered, ‘Be careful, my hero.’
Brad gave her a wink and strode back to his cart. For the rest of the paper run birds cooed, the winds blew and he floated along.
The next week Brad came up with his finest story yet. He even added a photo of himself holding his thumbs up.
Local Boy Saves Whole Class from Meteor
Loc
al hero, Brad Busby, has outdone himself. Yesterday at midday there was a meteor heading straight for the classroom where K-2 was having lessons with Miss Maple. Brad was passing by and noticed the meteor. He climbed on the roof of the classroom, risking his life, stood directly beneath the meteor and held a piece of cardboard over his head. The meteor hit the cardboard, nearly killing Brad, and bounced off and onto the sports oval, thereby saving K-2 and Miss Maple. Local people held up signs saying, ‘Brad is really, really, really heroic.’
That Sunday he strode up to the newsagent, gave Mr Kominos a manly handshake, which surprised him, took the cart and the papers, stuck the third edition of The Shetland Heights Gazette in and set off on his paper run. That week it really was a run – he ran along the streets pulling the cart like he was sprinting in the Olympics. He threw the papers at Mr Lin and Mrs Mack, promising to take their money next week, and with a final burst he made it to Wilson Street. As he approached the corner he slowed up, smoothed his hair down, popped a breath mint in his mouth and walked to Emma’s house. Only there was no one on the porch. Strange.
He walked to the front door and knocked. Perhaps she was inside making herself even more beautiful than normal, as if that were possible! He heard heavy footsteps and then the door opened to reveal a large man with a black beard and slightly scary eyes.
‘Hi,’ he said, his voice echoing round the porch. ‘Ummm, paper?’ He held out the Sun Herald. The man gave him two dollars,
