Slice
Page 1
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Slice: Juicy Moments From My Impossible Life
ePub ISBN 9781864716030
Kindle ISBN 9781864716344
A Random House book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au
First published by Bloomsbury USA Children’s Books in 2009
First published by Random House Australia in 2010
Text copyright © 2009 by S R Vaught and J B Redmond
Maps copyright © 2009 by Laura Hartman Maestro
The moral right of the authors has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.
Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Author: Vaught, Susan, 1965–
Title: A prince among killers/S R Vaught, J B Redmond
ISBN: 978 1 86471 986 4 (pbk.)
Series: Vaught, Susan, 1965– Oathbreaker; 2
Target Audience: For children
Other Authors/Contributors: Redmond, J. B.
Dewey Number: 813.6
Cover design by www.blacksheep-uk.com
Internal design by Donna Mark
Typeset by Westchester Book Composition
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Darcy
A normal sixteen-year-old
My parents
Five things my dad told me not to do
The teenager on the roof
The sexual history of Darcy Walker
My favourite school subject
The perfect lunchtime ... almost
The English essay
The school
My classmates
The value of poetry
Sport
To go or not to go
The school excursion
In the valley, in the bus
The campground
Noah
A-rowing we will go...
A moment away
Scroggin
Inside the tortured mind of young Darcy
The return of the sodden sailors
Me and Dad have a serious talk
A quick detour
The ... date
Walking after midnight
Breakfast with the parents
A do-gooder
Man or amoeba?
How close is too close?
Don’t run with your shirt pulled over your face
About the author
Darcy
My name is Darcy Franz Pele Walker.
Ignore the middle names.
I do.
My Dad is a football nut and he figured if he named me after his two favourite players, I’d turn out just like them. At the age of five, I’d stand in the backyard wearing baggy blue shorts and a Brazilian jersey watching the clouds, the trees, birds tilting overhead on the breeze.
Dad would shout, ‘Ready, Darcy?’ and roll the ball temptingly my way.
‘Just kick it with all you’ve got, son.’
I’d look at the coloured panels on the ball.
‘Just swing your foot, Darcy.’
Arms extended, I’d obediently sway my right leg like a ballerina stretching.
The football experiment stopped at age eleven. Years of frustration got the better of Dad and he belted one, straight at me. Bloodcurdling screams rent the suburb.
Not from me, from Mum.
I lay on my back, a warm ooze of blood trickling down my face.
People say I look better with a broken nose.
It’s a slight lump.
You can hardly notice it.
Dad was distraught. Mum shouted at him for hours, bad language bouncing off the kitchen walls.
Dad said I’d never have to play football again.
I almost hugged him, but I didn’t want to get blood all over his clean shirt.
Pele is some Brazilian dude, the greatest player of all time. When he retired he became the Minister for Sport in the Brazilian government. He did a television commercial for men with erection problems.
Franz is Franz Beckenbauer – the only person to win the World Cup as player and a coach. In his heyday he had a haircut like a laughing clown, curls framing an amiable, round, chubby face.
A normal sixteen-year-old
There are two minutes and twenty-four seconds until lunchtime.
Maths with Mr Clegg.
How’s that for a name?
Caleb Clegg.
Some parents should be forbidden from naming their children.
Are you listening, Mum and Dad?
Mr Clegg is wearing a paisley shirt and mustard slacks with matching cowdung-coloured shoes. He has a sergeant-major haircut, lacquered down with Brylcreem (I saw it on his desk yesterday). According to Google, Brylcreem was used by old men and rock stars last century. It’s made of beeswax.
Anyway, Wax-head is lecturing us on the relevance of Maths in daily life. He spouts forth ( spouts forth – my attempt at Shakespeare) and he doth complain too much about nobody recognising the value of numeracy.
I won’t bore you with the details. He’s been raving for forty-three minutes and ... fifteen seconds nonstop. We’ve been promised our final exam results today but I don’t like our chances. The clock ticks down to one minute and thirty seconds until freedom. Stacey Scott slumps forward like an old lady nodding off over her knitting. If Clegg notices he’ll keep us in after the bell.
I jump up from my desk, a finger pointing accusingly towards the clock. ‘Sir. The time!’
Stacey bounces awake. Mr Clegg gasps, glasses hanging loosely off his broken nose. We have some thing in common!
‘Darcy Walker, how dare you...’
‘Sir, a quick calculation tells me we only have one minute left before lunch. You’re right. Maths is useful!’
Sniggering comes from the losers in the
back row. Gutless wonders!
‘If you give us our results now, we’ll see how relevant Maths will be in the future, won’t we?’
Clegg sweeps his hand over his Brylcreem-stiff hair, mutters under his breath, then reaches for the results folder and walks to the front of his desk. I stand triumphantly waiting to be mobbed by cheering students, blokes slapping me on the back, girls offering kisses and seductive text messages.
Instead, Marcus Guyotus whines from the corner, ‘Can you sit down, Darcy. I can’t see the board.’
‘There’s nothing on the board, Marcus.’
‘How do I know that, if you’re in the way?’
‘Open your eyes!’
‘Sir, Walker just insulted me!’
‘Telling somebody to open their eyes is not an insult, Marcus. Your haircut, on the other hand...’
‘Walker! It’s bad enough you interrupt me, it’s worse you continue to hold the floor.’
‘I’m technically not “holding” the floor, sir. I don’t believe that’s physically possible. All I’m...’
‘Sit!’
I make like a dog and do as he commands.
The bell rings and everyone scrapes their chairs back in unison. Stacey is almost at the door when Clegg calls, ‘Not so fast, sleepyhead. Walker demanded your results...’ Clegg smiles. ‘...Something for you all to savour over lunch.’
Like a funeral bell tolling, he slowly reads our scores.
Nobody says a word, failures scatter like dead leaves.
Me?
61%!
Miranda and Stacey stand in the canteen line, Miranda’s voice is like a chainsaw cutting through soft timber. ‘Clegg is a prick. I can’t believe he failed me. All Maths teachers are sadists. You’d have to be to...’
Stacey interrupts, ‘Did he really say “sleepyhead”? Isn’t there a rule against name-calling?’
Mrs Harrison, the canteen lady, drums her fingers on the bench waiting for them to order.
My stomach rumbles and my ears ache from listening to these two.
I lean forward. ‘It’s called bullying, but I’m not sure if “sleepyhead” qualifies.’
Miranda sneers, ‘How would you know? Stacey is very sensitive. Aren’t you Stace?’
‘Please don’t call me Stace.’
‘See!’
Mrs Harrison rolls her eyes. ‘Pies or sausage rolls. That’s all we’ve got left.’
Miranda says, ‘I’ll have a salad sandwich.’
I’m sixteen years old and my mouth runs ahead of my brain. Our friend Pele would describe it as – ahem – premature enunciation. Mum says I talk without thinking. She’s wrong.
I mean what I say, I just shouldn’t say it aloud.
My parents
I drop my backpack on the floor in the kitchen and grab a bottle of juice from the fridge, shaking it so all the gunky stuff mixes with the ungunky stuff. In the lounge, Dad is reading the sports section with his feet up on the stool. It’s the last day of his weeklong break from work. He’s an accountant.
‘How was your day, Darcy?’
‘Great. I had a cold pie for lunch and came second in my Maths exam.’
‘Brilliant! What did you score?’
‘Second in the class. I just told you.’
Dad folds the newspaper and rubs his hand over a six-day growth.
‘What percentage?’
‘You accountants are so concerned with figures. What about ranking? I repeat, “second-highest”.’
Dad laughs. ‘Just tell me you got over fifty per cent, Darcy.’
I slap his bare feet as I walk past to my bedroom. ‘Your son is a success!’
Whenever Dad has a week or two off work, he grows a beard and contemplates his reflection in the mirror. He strolls around the neighbourhood, rubbing his whiskers like a homeless philosopher. He wears his shirt untucked with baggy shorts and leather sandals. Once I saw him outside a tattoo parlour admiring the designs in the window. He wandered over to the Harley parked outside and ran his hand lovingly over the leather seat. He dreams of rebellion while driving our Camry.
Until...
Tonight Mum has cooked spaghetti marinara, Dad’s favourite.
Mum scoops huge helpings into each bowl while Dad opens the wine.
She rinses the saucepan in the sink and before sitting down, leans in close and kisses Dad. As she pulls away, her fingers linger on his stubble. ‘Growing a beard, darling?’
Dad wriggles uncomfortably. ‘Maybe.’
Mum makes a sound in the back of her throat.
Dad looks hurt. ‘What?’
‘Nothing, darling. It’s just...’
‘You look good, Dad. Like a university dropout, or an artist.’
Mum takes a sip of wine. ‘As I was saying...’ She glances at me. ‘It’s just ... well ... how many prime ministers have beards?’
‘I’m an accountant, dear.’
‘Tasty dinner, Mum.’
There’s that sound in the back of her throat again. ‘Trust, David. Clients demand trust.’
‘A beard doesn’t mean I’ll take their investments and spend them on cocaine or gambling or wild women?’
‘That’d be great, Dad.’
Mum raises her eyebrows.
‘Not the wild women, Mum. Just the drugs and...’
‘Darcy, you are not helping matters.’
‘I’m a teenager.’
‘That’s not an excuse.’
Dad sadly loops the spaghetti over his fork. Mum leans across and fills up his wine glass. The condemned beard’s last drink.
When it turned out I didn’t have the ball skills of Franz and Pele, Dad decided to play football him self. Every Sunday afternoon during winter, he drives twenty kilometres to compete in an over-35 men’s competition. He didn’t join the local club because he wanted to keep it a secret, in case he’d forgotten how to play.
As it turns out, Dad is a half-decent striker. Some thing to do with failed childhood dreams manifesting themselves as an adult reality. That’s Dad, not Shakespeare. Mum and me almost choked on our lasagne when he said that over dinner after his first trial game.
In the following season, he scored eighteen goals and broke his left wrist in the last game.
Was he worried about the plaster?
No way. He was pleased it happened during the last game, so he’d have the off-season to heal.
Mum muttered darkly about future injuries.
Dad let me sign his cast.
On Saturday, when most dads are washing the car, pruning the hedge or mowing the lawn, Dad sits on the back step polishing his football boots. He gives me pass-by-pass accounts of his previous game, going into every detail of each shot, tackle, run. I allow him the dignity of thirty minutes reliving his last game. I’m sure he’s tempted to run around the yard with a ball trying to recreate each game.
Mum would tell him to mind the roses and not make so much noise.
Dad should have been a professional footballer. Or a sports journalist. Not an accountant. An accountant without a beard.
Mum is a barrister. And she dresses like one. Lots of linen suits, silk blouses, black stockings and pointy shoes; crisp, expensive Italian style. A severe haircut that Dad calls a barrister-bob. A dark leather briefcase. No handbag – handbags are for girls. Mum’s a power woman out to bring justice to the world.
I’ve sat in court watching her handling a case. She argues as if the future of the planet depends on the decision. Her whole body is energised as she strides between her desk and the front of the court. The click of her heels keep time with her loud and forceful voice. I’m expecting her to leap over the judge’s box, grab him by the throat and shake him until he agrees.
That’s Mum on the outside.
At home, she wears trackies and an old sweater. She washes all the make-up off and becomes a different woman. Kind and thoughtful and concerned and sincere.
It’s like living with your school counsellor!
Sh
e has this habit of listening with such an intensity that sometimes I can’t stop talking. I’m driven to fill the silence with an overdose of verbal slush. The more I go on, the closer she leans.
I’ve blurted out heaps of needless confessions on not finishing school assignments; of drinking at Stacey’s parties; of deliberately being late for class when we’ve got Information Technology.
Maybe all mums are able to find out what they want, whenever they want.
It’s a skill passed down from mother to daughter.
Fathers and sons?
Nah.
Just a desire to kick a ball or grow a beard.
Five things my dad told me not to do
Dad dearly wanted me to play football.
No luck.
Now for the things he discouraged.
Five, in particular.
What would you do if your dad told you not to do something?
Number One: SHAVE
Last term I noticed long dark soft hair sprouting from above my top lip. I stroked it and rubbed Mum’s moisturiser in to encourage growth. The sooner I became a man the better. I half-expected Audrey Benitez, girl of my dreams in English class, to approach me at lunchtime and offer herself.