Slice

by Steven Herrick

  I’d get up if I had my breath back. Maybe in a little while. Say, thirty minutes?

  Mr Jackson nods to the driver to start again and tells everyone to sit down. I’m glad no-one has asked me to talk. My throat is on fire.

  Noah carefully packs all his pieces back into the set.

  He’s trying not to look in my direction, like a motorist late for an appointment passing a road accident.

  I wouldn’t mind a nice quiet game of chess right now.

  Maybe a cup of tea and a good lie-down as well.

  Everyone knows Tim’s mum left home last year and hasn’t been seen since. Rumour is she packed the clapped-out station wagon one morning before the family woke and drove off, leaving a note on the kitchen table. The neighbours said when Tim’s dad got home from shiftwork, he threw all her belongings in the garden and lit a huge bonfire.

  Soon after, I walked past their place.

  Tim was spreading sand over the scorched grass.

  He saw me passing and sneered.

  Ms Pine looks from Tim to me to Mr Jackson.

  She says, ‘We’ve got twenty-four hours together, boys.

  ‘Let’s try a little harder, shall we?’

  Tim grunts.

  Mr Jackson adds, ‘I don’t want to have to write a report to Mrs Archer. Let’s call it over-exuberance.’

  Tim grunts again.

  I extend my hand. ‘Sorry, Tim’.

  We shake and Tim walks to the rear of the bus. Mr Jackson looks at Ms Pine, shrugs his shoulders and returns to his seat. Ms Pine pats my shoulder and follows him.

  Plonking myself down next to Noah, I look out the window for a very long time. Noah keeps fidgeting in his seat wanting to say something.

  But he thinks better of it.

  In the valley, in the bus

  The bus rattles down the mountain, the road shaded by stands of ghost gums.

  In the distance, cows graze in the green valley and a ramshackle windmill spins crookedly. On the side of a barn, a sign reads, ‘Chickens for sale. Dead or alive’.

  You can buy a pet for the children – or dinner.

  As the road levels, a row of trees shields the river twisting through the valley.

  Half the students are asleep, the other half are listening to iPods. Audrey sits a few rows in front staring out the window.

  I’m embarrassed about the fight with Tim, for letting my big mouth get the better of me. It was a cheap shot about his mum.

  Audrey stands and walks down the aisle to my seat. She leans in to Noah and says, ‘Why don’t you take my seat? Then you can stretch out.’

  It’s probably the closest he’s been to a female since childbirth.

  He looks quickly at me and tightens his grip on the chess board.

  ‘Where ... where will you sit?’

  ‘I’ll sit with Darcy. I want to ask him about English homework.’

  I touch his arm. ‘It’s okay, Noah. We’ll have a game later tonight. Beside the campfire.’

  Visions of plastic chess pieces melting in the flames.

  Noah stands slowly and nervously moves past Audrey, worried about parts of his body touching parts of her body.

  I have a similar fear, Noah.

  Audrey sits beside me. ‘I came to protect you from evil Tim.’

  ‘Me and Noah could handle Tim and Braith. No worries.’

  Audrey whispers, ‘Yeah, you’d bore them to death with chess.’

  Can we press the pause button for a moment?

  Everyone has a screensaver image they like to look at, right: an expanse of ocean, a snow-capped mountain, trees swaying in the breeze, a picture of our closest friend. We can spend hours gazing wistfully, drifting, blissfully lost. It’s meditation for people who can’t sit cross-legged in the backyard and hum.

  My parents would call it soul quality time.

  What I’m trying to say is looking at Audrey does it for me.

  No, it’s not frantic rumblings of erections and naked bodies wrapped together, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s almost – cue Twilight Zone music – mystical.

  Okay?

  Pure and simple.

  No sleaze.

  Just admiration.

  Audrey clicks her fingers, quietly.

  ‘Are you still with me, Darcy?’

  ‘Sorry, I was thinking of meditation. We should try it together sometime. You can show me how.’

  ‘It’s meant to be done alone, in a quiet place, like my backyard.’ She raises one eyebrow. ‘With no-one watching.’

  The bus steadily climbs a hill, the driver wrestling with the gearstick.

  The grating is putting my teeth on edge.

  Mr Jackson is telling Ms Pine all about the finer points of fibreglass kayaks versus plastic. Jessica and Rosa are pointing and laughing at pictures in a glossy magazine, their squeals designed to attract the attention of the boys slouching in the back row.

  ‘Audrey, I like to sit on my roof and look at the ... cliffs.’

  Her eyebrow arches, just that little bit higher.

  I wriggle uncomfortably in my seat. ‘Okay. I admit it! I’ll never do it again. Ever!’

  Mr Jackson shows Ms Pine the correct way to wear a life jacket. He struggles with the plastic buckle meant to fit snugly around his waist.

  It doesn’t quite reach.

  Mr Jackson’s face turns red.

  ‘I knew you were there, Darcy.’

  This is more uncomfortable than playing chess with Noah.

  Audrey leans forward and grips the metal bar on the seat in front. ‘It’s okay. I didn’t really think you were perving.’

  In the clear light of day, what else was it!

  I swallow hard.

  ‘I tried meditating once, on the roof.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘I kept falling asleep. My head drooping forward until I’d wake and not know where I was.’

  ‘I’ve done that. Sometimes, when I’m really blissed out, I dribble.’

  She looks quickly behind, hoping Jessica and Rosa haven’t heard.

  They’re still off with Paris or Lindsay in skank heaven.

  ‘The other day, when I caught you perving – I mean, looking at the cliffs – did you duck?’

  ‘Nah. It was a trick of the light. Why would I duck?’

  ‘Darcy?’

  I raise both hands, in surrender.

  ‘Guilty. And I’ll never do it again. I promise.’

  The campground

  Twenty-eight students stand around a stack of dry twigs and rolled up newspaper. Mr Jackson and Ms Pine talk in hushed tones. Surely, some one has brought some matches. It’ll be dark in less than an hour. A crow drolls from the highest branch.

  ‘I could get it going, if ya want?’

  It’s the second time Tim has spoken since we arrived at the campsite.

  The first time was when he stepped off the bus, looked around at the featureless scrub and said ‘shit’ in a very loud voice.

  Mr Jackson grimaced. ‘That’ll be enough, Tim. It’s not so bad.’

  Stacey added, ‘It’s a pile of weeds, sir. We can’t sleep here.’

  The sign read ‘Roberts Campground’. Fifty square metres of patchy grass, a few fallen logs rotting along one side, the river on the other and a track leading off into the bush.

  Jessica was the first to mention the key word.

  ‘Toilets?’

  Mr Jackson walked to the pile of gear and picked up a shovel. He held it out to Jessica. She backed away.

  He smiled and pointed at her magazine.

  ‘And that’ll come in handy too.’

  Mr Jackson claps his hands.

  ‘Okay, anyone have a match?’

  Quick as a flash, Braith replies, ‘Sure, my arse and Darcy’s face.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it’s where Braith keeps his brain.’

  Braith spits and threatens to shoot me with his finger again.

  Mr Jackson elaborately removes a box of matches from
his jacket pocket.

  ‘I wondered how many of you came prepared.’

  Tim repeats, ‘I could get it going, if ya want.’

  He seems unduly interested in burning things.

  Mr Jackson tosses him the matchbox.

  ‘Okay, Tim has the fire. The rest of you start unpacking your gear. You can sleep anywhere within ten metres of the fire. Not too close.

  ‘The kayaks will be arriving early tomorrow.’

  Ms Pine adds, ‘There’ll be no sharing of sleeping bags. You understand?’

  We all scatter, looking for the softest patch of grass among the weeds.

  I carry my sleeping bag towards the river, Noah close behind.

  I turn left, then right, circle back on myself. Noah follows, like a lost puppy.

  Audrey is close to the logs on the far side of the camp. It would be a little obvious to walk straight across and plonk myself down beside her.

  As obvious as Noah standing beside me.

  ‘This looks good here, Darcy?’

  ‘Yeah, Noah. It’s fine.’

  He spreads his sleeping bag out, doing the zip up full.

  He grins sheepishly. ‘In case anything climbs inside when I’m at the fire.’

  ‘What, like Stacey Scott?’

  Noah shivers at the thought, glancing across to Stacey and Miranda sitting on their bags, suspiciously close to Braith and the rest of the blokes.

  It’s going to be a long night of dirty jokes, giggling and Mr Jackson shouting for everyone to go to sleep.

  ‘I wish I’d brought my pillow.’ Noah says.

  Claire Rusina has arranged her sleeping bag next to Audrey. No chance of me creeping over there later tonight. Not that I’ve got enough guts anyway.

  It’s me and Noah.

  He places the chessboard on his bag.

  ‘We can have a game before bed, Darcy. I would have won last time, I reckon.’

  He looks furtively at Tim.

  Tim is busy lighting another match and swearing. Mr Jackson stands beside him.

  ‘It needs more paper, Tim.’

  Tim coughs, overwhelmed by smoke.

  It hasn’t rained in days but the kindling is damp with dew. Somewhere high in the forest, a wattlebird cackles. Everyone carries their dinner boxes towards the wood stack, waiting for Tim, or Mr Jackson.

  The sound of snoring comes from the bus.

  Mr Carney, the bus driver, is already asleep on the back seat. It’s his job to pick us up at the other end of the river.

  Braith suggests, ‘We can drain the fuel tank on the bus, pour it on and we’ll have a blaze going in no time.’

  Ms Pine rolls her eyes. ‘And a bushfire half-way to town.’

  Braith laughs. ‘No worries. We’ll jump in the river.’

  The smoke is getting worse.

  Noah says, ‘We could all try blowing on it.’

  Everyone looks at Noah. To give them credit, noone speaks.

  As if on cue, a light breeze starts the paper burning.

  The twigs crackle as the fire takes hold.

  Tim stands and bows as a few people clap.

  We all crowd around the growing flames.

  Everyone unwraps the sandwiches. White bread and cheese.

  Tim groans. ‘How can we eat this shit?’

  Mr Jackson looks hurt. ‘The canteen ladies prepared these especially for us, Tim.’

  ‘Why don’t we drive back to McDonald’s?’ Jessica steps from one foot to the other, ‘For food and toilets.’

  Mr Jackson ignores her and takes a huge bite of his sandwich, pretending it tastes good.

  Braith picks up a long twig and stabs his sandwich. He swaggers to the fire and holds it over the flames. ‘Toasted cheese sanga!’

  The twig breaks and the sandwich falls into the fire.

  Braith reaches for a packet of corn chips and swears.

  After dinner, I casually saunter over to stand near Audrey. Claire is rubbing her hands and talking non-stop. Audrey doesn’t notice me beside her. Above the crackle and spit of the flaming logs, I hear Claire’s monologue–

  ‘He’s got his own car and he lives with his brother, in a flat near the beach. At first, the smell of dead meat put me off, but he’d scrub his hands with ti-tree oil. Isn’t that sweet? I never met a butcher before. I kept thinking of blood and gristle under his fingernails, uggghhh! Anyway, he’s better than any boy at school.’

  As she says this, I can’t help but cough.

  I blame the smoke.

  Audrey notices me.

  ‘Hey, Darcy. Claire and me were talking about boys. Join in.’

  ‘What would I know about boys? I mean, apart from myself.’

  That didn’t come out quite right. I do not have masturbatory fantasies!

  ‘Claire was telling me about her new boyfriend. A butcher.’

  ‘Nice.’

  Claire doesn’t like my tone.

  ‘Well, at least he’s got a job. And he’s much older than you!’

  ‘And you know, he’ll always be older than me. Even when I’m eighty.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Noah calls from the other side of the fire, ‘Hey Darcy, look what I’ve got!’

  He waves a packet of marshmallows.

  Claire smirks, ‘Better go eat lollies with your pal, Walker.’

  Audrey doesn’t meet my eyes.

  I contemplate shoving a whole bag of marshmallows down Claire’s throat.

  Noah suggests we toast them on the fire.

  Soggy cheese sandwiches and burnt marshmallows. The night couldn’t get much better.

  I walk to my sleeping bag and climb in, pulling the flap over my head.

  It’s warm and quiet inside.

  Noah opens the chessboard.

  Tim calls, ‘Still got ya porn, Noah?’

  Giggles from the girls, loud laughter from Tim and Braith.

  Braith says, ‘You can learn a lot from magazines, Hennessy.’

  I dearly want to yell, ‘Only if you can read!’

  Tim Harris farts.

  It’s amazing how far noise travels in the dark. Mr Jackson calls out, ‘Time for bed everyone, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

  Everyone climbs into their sleeping bags. Tim, Braith and a few girls have arranged their bags close to the edge of the campground, where the firelight barely reaches.

  An owl hoots from the trees across the river and one of the girls giggles again. Above us, a plane drones at ten thousand metres. Claire says to no-one in particular, ‘I should have brought a pillow.’

  Braith answers. ‘You can rest your head on my stomach, if ya want.’

  ‘In your dreams, Miller.’

  Mr Jackson makes a sound like a punctured gas cylinder. ‘SSSSSHHHHHH!’

  It’s quiet for all of five minutes when I hear the sound of shuffling and urgent whispers. Harris has made a play to climb in with Stacey. I peek out from under my hood and see a figure crawling back to his bag.

  Tough luck, Tim.

  A sound of a bag being zipped up is followed by a fart and another burst of laughing, this time only from the boys.

  Noah coughs. ‘Pssst.’

  I pretend to be asleep.

  ‘Psssst!’

  I fake snoring, badly.

  ‘Darcy?’

  ‘Go to sleep, Noah.’

  ‘I want to show you something.’

  Please don’t let Tim hear that.

  ‘Tomorrow, for God’s sake.’

  Noah unzips his bag and pulls something out from underneath. It looks like...

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘It’s not real, Darcy.’

  He holds up a long plastic snake. In the darkness, it looks suspiciously menacing and live.

  ‘We can throw it over there and see what happens.’

  ‘It’s a little childish, Noah.’

  ‘What, more juvenile than farting and porn?’

  ‘Okay, do what you like. Just don’t invo
lve me.’

  Noah grins insanely and launches the snake on its way with all his strength.

  ‘Shit! Shit!’

  Tim jumps up, still in his bag, and staggers across the campground. He’s madly trying to unzip the bag and run at the same time. He stumbles and falls, rolling in the dirt.

  ‘It’s a monster!’

  Jessica Wells sees the snake coiled in the grass and quickly pulls the bag over her head, rolling herself in a tight little ball. Claire closes her eyes and screams. Both are obviously devotees of the ‘what we can’t see, can’t hurt us’ brigade.

  Tim frees his hands from the sleeping bag and frantically rubs his hair as if the poison is seeping into his brain.

  ‘It’s a death adder! It landed on my head.’

  He unzips his bag and scrambles out, grabs a log from the fire and holds it in front of him, searching for the snake. He looks like a berserk warrior wearing Mickey Mouse boxer shorts.

  Tim lurches towards the girls, the log crackling and spitting sparks. ‘I’m gunna kill it!’

  Mr Jackson approaches, holding up both hands. ‘Calm down, Tim. It’s gone now. All that noise would scare anything away.’

  Tim points to something beside Claire and runs towards it. Claire opens her eyes and sees Tim marauding, flaming log ready to strike. She screams once, then faints, dropping in her sleeping bag like a sack of sad potatoes. Ms Pine rushes towards her and lifts her head, clearing the airways.

  It’s a faint, not a fit!

  Tim stands over the plastic monster. ‘You bastard!’

  He beats it senseless with his burning log, hitting the snake so hard it bounces.

  It’s fighting back!

  The plastic snake is fighting back!

  Tim belts it again and again, sparks hiss and fly and the snake is melting. I can smell the putrid scent of blistering plastic.

  Noah yells, ‘It’s a toy!’

  Everyone stops moving. Even Ms Pine leaves Claire’s tongue alone and looks toward the snake. Tim holds the log close to the snake’s head and sees the colours, all bright and shiny and melty and very, very unlifelike. Or whatever the word is that means plastic.

  Claire stirs briefly beside Ms Pine and looks at the snake. She’s about to scream again so Ms Pine puts her hand over Claire’s mouth. ‘It’s a toy, Claire. Nothing to worry about.’

  Claire removes Ms Pine’s hand from her mouth, as any self-respecting teenage girl would do, gets out of her sleeping bag and walks quickly into the bushes.