Pookie Aleera is Not My Boyfriend

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Pookie Aleera is Not My Boyfriend Page 9

by Steven Herrick


  Such a simple plan.

  The tennis ball

  is soaked with dam water

  and Skip’s spit,

  but no matter how many times my brother

  throws the ball

  Skip chases it

  and brings it back

  to drop at our feet.

  MR KORSKY

  I drove my ute

  up to Walter Baxter’s place

  on Monday afternoon

  and I sat on the front verandah

  looking out over the town

  just like Walter and I used to do

  when he was alive.

  I poured a beer in two glasses

  and drank from them both

  until the sun drifted

  behind the hills.

  The window frames rattled in the wind

  and I told Walter

  all the news I could think of:

  the footy team’s win on Saturday,

  the joy of the Parker’s wedding,

  how the council

  opens the library on Thursday nights now,

  and

  I told Walter

  how much I miss him.

  Then I went to the ute

  and lifted the lawn-mower out

  filled it with two-stroke

  and set to work on his yard.

  The evening faded

  and afterwards

  I had another beer

  with Walter

  and admired the view.

  CAMERON

  I’ve been sitting

  waiting

  beside the river

  for exactly twelve minutes

  and thirty-two seconds

  when I see her

  riding across the bridge.

  I pretend not to notice

  and start whistling casually

  except

  I’m not a very good whistler

  so I accidentally dribble

  and blow a huge raspberry

  which I quickly wipe on my sleeve.

  I try humming instead

  huuummmm hhuummm hhhuuummm.

  ‘Hello, me,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I answer.

  ‘I knew it was you, me, who phoned,’ she says.

  I smile.

  ‘Should I keep calling you me?’ she asks.

  ‘Cameron is fine,’ I say.

  ‘Hi, Cameron is fine,’ she says, and giggles.

  After a few minutes

  of no one speaking

  she asks,

  ‘Can you whistle?’

  RACHEL

  Sometimes I wake

  in the middle of the night.

  A tree branch scratches at my window.

  Dad snores like a broken kettle.

  I know Mum is sleeping beside him

  earplugs in place.

  Our dog Maisy snuffles beside my bed.

  She can’t sleep either.

  A breeze clinks the wind chimes

  on the verandah

  and then I hear it,

  what I’ve been hoping for . . .

  a barn owl hoots . . .

  I scramble out of bed

  and creep to the window.

  Maisy whines.

  Shhhh!

  Maisy follows my eyes

  and we both sit

  wide awake

  waiting

  for the applause of wings

  as the white-faced owl

  circles high over our yard

  like a delicate kite

  before swooping into the paddock

  and snatching up a fieldmouse

  from the wire grass.

  Maisy goes back to her blanket

  and I climb into bed.

  My clock glows midnight.

  I close my eyes

  and fly over the paddocks

  with the owl

  in the perfect moonlight

  of my dreams.

  LAURA

  I’m not sure when

  to give Mick the crackles.

  Should I leave them on his desk

  with a note from anonymous?

  Or sneak them into his backpack

  hanging on the verandah?

  Maybe I’ll just hand him the package

  and walk away before he has a chance to say no.

  The bell rings for class,

  the crackles stay hidden in my bag.

  At morning recess, I can’t find Mick,

  maybe he’s hiding from me?

  All morning in class I think of the crackles

  and hope they’re not melting.

  At lunch I sit on my bench seat

  the package of crackles on my lap

  watching Mick and his friends

  lazing against the back fence, laughing

  and I know there’s only ten minutes

  until the afternoon bell

  and I can’t bear it any longer

  so I take a deep breath,

  and walk, knees knocking, hands shaking,

  towards Mick and his gang.

  Rachel sees me first and says, ‘Hi’

  and Mick looks up

  and I get scared

  so I casually toss the parcel

  and luckily he’s a good catch

  and he laughs and says, ‘Whoa!’

  which is not a word,

  not really, it’s just a sound,

  and I don’t know what to say

  so I turn and start to walk

  back to my bench

  where I belong

  and Mick says, ‘Laura’

  he calls my name

  so I turn back to him

  and he unwraps the parcel

  and everyone looks inside and laughs.

  Cameron says, ‘Not more biscuits!’

  and Mick blushes,

  I’m sure he blushes, and says,

  ‘Sit down and help us eat them.’

  He looks up at me and adds, ‘Please?’

  And then he makes a space

  between him and Selina

  and offers me the first crackle

  and it tastes

  as fresh and crisp and sweet

  as friendship.

  RACHEL

  Ms Arthur said

  at her last school

  in the city

  they didn’t have

  snakes in the playground

  or children jumping off sheds

  trying to fly.

  She said

  they didn’t have summer storms

  that threatened to wash away the town

  or students who yelled and saluted

  in answer to roll call

  and they didn’t have

  butterfly swarms

  or days so windy and hot

  it was like teaching in an oven

  and she didn’t remember her city school

  having a ghost house nearby

  and the children swam in a heated pool

  not in the river

  and her last school didn’t have

  an old-fashioned bell

  and the children at that school

  didn’t know everyone

  who lived within ten kilometres

  and then she stopped talking

  and smiled . . .

  at the end of the day


  Ms Arthur told us

  she was going to apply

  to stay at our school

  for another year

  at least!

  MICK

  Why is it always Charlie Deakin

  who’s asked to lead me

  to the Principal’s office?

  What have I done this time!

  Charlie is smirking, again,

  does he have any other look?

  Why do I need him to show me

  where Mr Hume’s office is?

  Charlie knocks on the door

  and says, ‘Mick Dowling’s here, sir.’

  As he walks away, he mutters, ‘Again’

  and I so much want to chase him,

  but Mr Hume calls me inside

  and tells me to sit down.

  He stands at the window

  gazing outside

  and I’m tempted to just admit everything.

  Yes, sir, I did it,

  whatever it was. Guilty!

  A week’s detention?

  Thanks, sir.

  Like removing a bandaid from a scab,

  just rip it off,

  get it over and done with.

  A second of pain

  and then a numb feeling

  for the rest of the day.

  ‘Mick,’ Mr Hume says.

  I sit up a little straighter.

  ‘Mick Dowling,’ he repeats.

  I know my own name.

  ‘I believe you’re responsible . . .’

  here we go

  ‘. . . for the biscuits

  that were brought to school recently.’

  Is he mad at me for not offering him one?

  ‘Is that true, Mick?’

  Well, strictly speaking, it was me

  and Rachel, Cameron, Pete, Selina, Alex,

  the whole gang

  but I don’t want them to get in trouble

  so I say,

  ‘Yes, sir, it was me.’

  Mr Hume sits down

  heavily at his desk

  and clasps his hands in front of him.

  ‘And I believe the biscuits

  were given to the Kindy children,

  and Year Five,

  the teachers,

  and Year Four,

  in fact,

  most of the school!’

  I knew it! I knew it!

  We should have given him one.

  Diet or no diet.

  Mr Hume sighs

  and stands once again,

  before walking to the window.

  What is out there?

  He says,

  ‘A few people have mentioned

  how pleased they were,

  to see such sharing

  in the schoolyard.

  Such . . .’

  Here we go, another lecture.

  ‘. . . a sense of community.’

  I groan, ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘I’m very proud of your actions, Mick!’

  Did he say proud

  not ashamed

  not annoyed

  not disappointed?

  Mr Hume walks back to his desk

  and offers his hand

  for me to shake

  and I stand quickly

  and grip his hand firmly

  like my dad taught me

  and I say, ‘Thanks, sir.’

  ‘A very generous gesture, young man,’ he says.

  As I open the door to leave,

  he says, once again, ‘Well done, Mick’

  and I turn and say,

  ‘Next time, sir, I’ll bring you a bundle as well.’

  He grins,

  ‘The diet, Mick . . .

  Just the one, hey?’

  PETE

  Last night at dinner

  Mum and Nan cooked a roast

  with thin-sliced potatoes baked in the oven,

  just the way I like them,

  and pumpkin and broccoli from our garden

  and Dad made his favourite pepper sauce

  for pouring gloopily over the roast

  and me and Dad

  moved the kitchen table and chairs

  out to the verandah

  for the breeze

  and Dad let me pour

  him and Nan

  a glass of beer each

  but Mum touched her tummy

  and said no

  when I offered her a glass.

  Maybe she’s sick?

  And I filled Ursula and my glasses

  with sweet raspberry cordial.

  We all sat outside

  eating and drinking

  and halfway through the meal

  Dad clinked his glass with a spoon

  and stood up,

  ‘Nan, Pete, Ursula . . .

  guess who’s pregnant?’

  Ursula giggled, ‘You, Dad!’

  and everyone laughed

  but we all looked at Mum,

  her face had gone as red

  as the cordial in my glass

  and, just for a second,

  I saw Nan glance

  across the paddock

  to the cemetery

  where Grandpa is buried

  and then she reached over

  and hugged Mum tightly.

  Mum had gone from blushing

  to crying

  and she hugged Nan back

  and said,

  ‘If it’s a boy,

  I know what we’ll name him.’

  And Nan smiled.

  LAURA

  After school

  I visit Mr Korsky,

  with the last chocolate crackle.

  He winks as he takes my gift, and says,

  ‘Wait just a minute, young lady.’

  He shuffles over to the back of his shed

  and comes back with a small tin.

  It’s shiny and new and doesn’t have a label.

  Mr Korsky reaches for his screwdriver

  and lifts the lid.

  He offers it to me,

  ‘Hold it up to your nose.’

  Inside is a golden liquid,

  like honey, only darker and thicker,

  sweet and treacly and . . .

  a smell so familiar.

  Mr Korsky laughs,

  ‘Someone . . . a kind young student

  left me a batch of recipes.’

  He nods at the tin I hold,

  ‘Lavender molasses.

  Perfect for scones or toast,

  almost as tasty as this chocolate crackle!’

  He places a cushion on a drum

  and offers me a seat.

  He says, quietly,

  ‘If you know who left the recipes,

  thank them for me, will you?’

  CAMERON

  On Saturday morning,

  I nervously enter the newsagency,

  expecting Mrs Davenport to yell

  and point me to the door

  as soon as I walk in

  but

  she just folds her arms across her chest

  like Dad does when he’s angry

  and I swallow hard

  walking quickly to the counter

  and I place the cake tin in front of her

  and she says,

  ‘What’s this?’

  I’m too nervous to answer

>   so

  she unfolds her arms

  and opens the tin.

  The smell of biscuits,

  fresh-baked this morning,

  fills the shop

  and she leans down

  over the tin

  closes her eyes

  and takes a deep breath.

  I glance quickly towards the comics

  and she catches me looking

  only this time

  she smiles

  and says,

  ‘Ten minutes’,

  reaching for a biscuit,

  ‘and not a second more, you hear.’

  MICK

  On the other side of the school back fence

  there is a paddock full of lush wild grass

  and there are nanny goats and their kids

  who wander around and bleat

  and sleep sometimes in the thick grass

  with just their ears poking up.

  In the gully is the river

  surrounded by willow trees

  with their branches weeping low,

  brushing along the surface.

  And sometimes when the sun is high

  and you look really close you can see

  little silver fish darting around.

  On the eastern bank of the river

  someone has tied a rope to one of the trees

  and if you’re tall enough

  you can grab the rope and swing yourself

  far out above the water

  and if you wanted

  on a hot sunny day

  if you’re wearing swimmers,

  and it’s lunchtime

  and no one saw you jump the back fence,

  you could drop into the water and swim,

  laughing all the way to the sandy shore

  watched only by the goats

  and the glorious sunshine.

  When you were dry and dressed,

  back in your school uniform

  and sneaking across the paddock

  hiding in the long grass,

  before climbing the fence back to school

  you’d notice

  someone has written the word

  paradise

  on the river side of the fence

  where no one can see it but you.

  In the last few seconds before you return to school.

  CAMERON'S DELICIOUS ANZAC BISCUITS

  1 cup plain flour, sifted

  1 cup rolled oats

  1 cup shredded coconut

  ¾ cup brown sugar

  125 grams butter, chopped

  2 tablespoons golden syrup

  ½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

  1 tablespoon water

 

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