Henry Hoey Hobson

by Christine Bongers

  In my experience it was better to slide in under the radar, stay out of sight of the office and do nothing to bring yourself to a principal’s attention. In my experience, it was better if the principal had no reason to recall your name.

  The purr of Angel Girl’s voice cut in, bringing me back to the question at hand. ‘We certainly are, Mr Paulson. We’re all looking after Henry, aren’t we, girls?’

  A happy hubbub of agreement bounced off my ears, which had started burning, along with the rest of my face.

  Mr Paulson’s eyes were a clear green, bright in the freckled flesh of his face.

  ‘I’m sorry I missed you this morning, Henry. I was looking forward to introducing you to everyone here at OLPS.’

  Fresh blood pumped through my face.

  Sprung.

  When Mum had woken me that morning with a kiss and our ritual first-day-at-a-new-school pancakes, she had given me the bad news. ‘I’ve got an early house inspection, honey-bun. I’m really sorry, but you’ll have to brave that big scary principal on your own this morning.’

  I’d shrugged, my mouth full of pancakes, and she’d ruffled my hair. But we both knew it was a big thing, her not being there on my first day, and she’d held me for about five seconds longer than was cool when it was time for her to go.

  I had sort of promised I’d go straight to the principal’s office before school, but it was a hard thing to do on my own. When I heard the bell go – that’s how close we lived to Perpetual Suckers – I’d scooted up the street and run straight into the classroom that Mr Paulson had shown me at the interview.

  I’d introduced myself to the substitute teacher, who was strung out over some presentation the class was supposed to be doing at assembly. She’d pointed at an empty desk and promptly forgotten me in the general stress of her morning.

  ‘Well, perhaps we could have a little chat now, Henry.’ From the look on Mr Paulson’s face, he was going to cut me some slack, give the newbie the benefit of the doubt. ‘The school sign needs changing. Would you like to give me a hand with that?’

  He gestured towards the front of the school with the broad-brimmed hat he’d been holding in his hand.

  I nodded – I didn’t have much choice – and stepped aside, letting him lead the way.

  He squished his springy hair under the hat and we moved off into the harsh sunlight to a chorus of ‘Bye, Henry’s interspersed with giggles.

  So much for my confrontation with Angel Girl.

  Mr Paulson set the pace, pointing out every landmark we passed, taking it real slow, like we had all day. ‘This is the adventure playground, very popular with the younger children, though we roster all the classes so everyone gets a turn.’

  A traffic jam of preps driving old cardboard boxes blocked the square of lawn fronting the playground.

  ‘Steady on, Maxwell, you’ll crash into Rosie if you don’t keep your eyes on the road. Nice set of wheels, Addison; go see if Mrs Hillcoat can find you an equally nice car body to go with them.’

  I picked my way through the gridlock, half-listening to the principal’s guided tour. One hundred and twenty-six Perpetual Suckers at the school, and he was determined to say hello to every last one of them.

  ‘I’m really sorry that I wasn’t able to let you know about the changed enrolment situation. It must have been quite a shock when you walked into the classroom this morning.’

  It took me a moment to realise that this time he was talking to me. When I turned, his eyes were serious, maybe even concerned.

  ‘When you and your mother came to see me last week, I told you both that there would be three other boys enrolled in Year Seven, as well as the twelve girls. It must have been quite a shock when you realised you were the only boy in the class.’

  I shrugged, ducking the flailing legs of a determined kid on the monkey bars.

  I’d never been able to do the monkey bars, not properly anyway. Too heavy. Bad strength-to-body-weight ratio. It was a major regret in my life. Along with the inability to do cartwheels, handstands and cryptic crosswords.

  Actually, I did manage to do a perfect handstand once, on a crowded beach at Mooloolaba, in front of thousands of people. Unfortunately, I was drowning at the time. Cryptic crosswords I’ve had more luck with – I can work out the odd clue, especially the anagrams. I figure if I keep at it, I’ll be able to do them one day. Unlike cartwheels and handstands, cryptic crosswords don’t require much in the way of upper-body strength.

  ‘–then when Mitchell decided he’d take up that late offer from St Joseph’s, I realised that–’

  Whoops, Mr Paulson was still talking and I didn’t have a clue if I’d missed something important.

  ‘–and the other two boys, well I guess they just kind of panicked. They’d never been particularly close, I’m afraid, and they found places elsewhere as well. I’m sorry, I did try to contact your mother. Which reminds me – may I have your latest phone numbers please, Henry? None of the ones I have seem to be connected.’

  I muttered something about the move and we walked the rest of the way to the front fence in silence.

  My mum had a talent for cutting ties and moving on when things didn’t work out. Jobs. Houses. Schools...

  Over the years, we had worked our way up, down and across south-east Queensland, from Maleny down to the Tweed Coast, with a brief stint at Noosa, then half the suburbs of Brisbane. When each move failed to live up to its promise, she’d up stakes and move again, negotiating a new mobile phone along with the next new job. In the beginning it had been fun, but now her determination to start afresh every few months was beginning to wear on me.

  Mr Paulson put a hand on my shoulder and turned me round, forcing me to meet his eyes.

  ‘I know it’s not easy starting at a new school, Henry, and being the only boy in Year Seven – well, that makes it even more challenging. I just wanted you to know that if there’s anything I can do to make things easier for you, I will.’

  I looked away from his steady gaze. Over the past six or seven years I had learned to take just about anything a new school had to throw at me. But kindness, that undid me every time.

  The loud clanging of the bell saved me answering. Mr Paulson’s hand dropped and he passed me a giant letter T.

  ‘We’d better get a move on. Here, you’re taller than me, start on the top row, slot the letters in and slide them into position. Don’t forget to leave a gap between the words.’

  We worked quickly, in complete silence, in the stinking heat of a Brisbane February, our message gradually taking shape.

  The thousands of cars that roared along the six-lane arterial road bordering the school were about to give thanks for Perpetual Suckers’ Thought for the Day.

  TODAY’S A GIFT

  THAT’S WHY

  WE CALL IT

  THE PRESENT

  I had to get out of this school. I really did. But first I had to make it through the day, then go home and kill my mother.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The relief teacher went into a flat spin when I walked back in with the principal in tow. Mr Paulson settled her down with a calming hand.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Ms Sanders. I’ve just been showing Henry around on his first day. Thought I’d take the opportunity to introduce him to the whole class, now that they’re all together. Good morning, girls and boys.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Paulson. May God smile on you.’

  I blinked in surprise. Either I was seeing double or Perpetual Suckers’ senior class had experienced a massive influx during first break. Not only that, there were a few boys clumped in the centre of the room. I turned to Mr Paulson, wondering if he had magicked them into existence after our talk.

  He smiled and leaned closer, his voice pitched low, for my ear only. ‘It was the Grade Six boys’ turn to set up for Assembly when you arrived this morning, and I take their class for Maths straight afterwards, so you wouldn’t have had a chance to meet everyone. Come on, I’ll introduce you
to the other boys in the Six/Seven Composite.’

  I nodded my way through the introductions and sat down, automatically sizing the situation up and analysing it for Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats.

  I’d learned this SWOT technique from Mum’s most boring friend ever. Weird Wally the Businessman. I could barely remember his face. Something squishy above a well-knotted tie. But he’d taught me the SWOT analysis and for that I would always be in his debt.

  If it hadn’t actually helped me fit in, at least it had helped explain why I didn’t.

  Strengths: the other three boys in our Six/Seven composite class were all younger, and a grade below me. That made me top man on the totem pole. The concept was so novel, I was having trouble getting my head around it. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to have greatness foisted upon me.

  Weaknesses: none of that altered the fact that I was the only boy in Year Seven. I’d still have to run my own race – literally, at sports carnivals. And I’d have to find a way to contend with the pack of young lionesses twitching their tails in my peripheral vision. Add to that the fact that I was an abandoned son of a deadbeat dad, and the only offspring of a mum who was a little too in touch with her inner flibbertigibbet, and who was currently attempting to scramble up the corporate ladder in a skirt that was too short and way too tight for the job. That was the trouble with weaknesses – they really weighed down the old SWOT analysis.

  Opportunities: the upside of being a bit of a lonely bugger was that there was no competition at my level. Maybe, for once, I could attempt to hone my leadership skills; see if my social skills worked better in a vacuum.

  Threats: only one big one that I could foresee–

  ‘Now girls, if I could have your attention for a moment...’

  Twenty-odd pigtailed, braided, cropped and headbanded heads turned towards their principal. He had these kids well trained, I had to give him that.

  ‘As you know, we have a new student in Year Seven. Henry was expecting to join a small cohort of senior boys at our school and unfortunately things haven’t quite worked out as planned.’

  Masterly understatement, Mr Paulson.

  ‘Henry could really use some friends and I can see that our Year Six boys are all eager to take on that role–’ he smiled at the rabbit-toothed, mop-headed and bespectacled trio of boys in the room, ‘–and I expect nothing less from you girls as well.’

  It was all I could do to stop myself slamming my head into the laminex top of my desk. This was even worse than I thought it was going to be. Mini-man Paulson had just killed any chance of me ever making friends in this class.

  He should have just hung a big ‘Nigel-No-Friends’ sign around my neck. Nothing puts other kids off quicker than thinking you’re a bit of a lonely bugger. The best way to guarantee that you’ll never make any friends is to advertise that you don’t have any to start with – they’ll stay away in droves, trust me.

  Being a Nigel-No-Friends stinks. Hanging around a Nigel-No-Friends makes everyone think you stink too. Stink by association. Stink squared. Basic maths.

  Don’t believe me? Then answer me this. When was the last time you made friends with anyone your mum told you to be nice to? Stanley seems a bit lonely – why don’t you invite him over?

  Bet you jacked up, soon as the words were out of her mouth. Bet you automatically came up with ten good reasons why you couldn’t invite Stanley over. Even if you didn’t mind him in the first place, the very fact that your mother was pushing the friendship as an act of charity would be enough to put you off, big time.

  Kiss of death, coming from your mum. Imagine the turbo-charged back-pedalling involved when your headmasterorders you to buddy up with a Nigel-No-Friends. Stink squared, cubed and multiplied by infinity.

  At this rate, I wasn’t going to have any friends till I was thirty.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Want to play?’

  I’d been watching the crazy, inexplicable handball game in the echoing undercroft below our classroom for the best part of five minutes. Instead of answering, I pushed myself to my feet and dusted myself off, quickly doing the maths.

  ...Five minutes with Sebastian, at the start of lunch break, scouring the boys’ toilets for vampires before giving the Preps, Year Ones and Year Twos the all-clear.

  ...Five minutes to peel and eat the orange and down the vegemite sandwich I’d brought for lunch. (Gotta love the labour-intensive orange. Tomorrow I was bringing two, to help fill in my day.)

  ...Five minutes trying to make sense of the bizarre game unfolding before me, while the girls danced up a storm at the other end of the schoolyard.

  By my reckoning, that still left thirty whole minutes of lunch break to fill in. I felt the braces rasp against my inner lips as I squeezed out a smile. Just a sliver; I didn’t want to tempt fate and reopen old wounds.

  ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  The three of them had been playing a fast-moving, round-robin version of handball that I hadn’t seen before. It looked like they were making it up as they went – the rules kept changing, without notice, as soon as someone yelled something incomprehensible from the sidelines.

  ‘With four of us, we could play dunces, if you like.’ They looked at me like I’d suggested playing naked. ‘What? You don’t like dunces?’ I asked.

  The mop-headed kid – Joey Castellaro – shrugged. He started bouncing the ball, slowly, not bothering to look, trusting that it would find his hand after each bounce. ‘It’s all right. Bit boring, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said a voice from behind me. ‘Dunces is fine.’

  It was the kid who’d asked me to join in. The name sticky-taped to his desk read Jironomo Marquezbut Mr Paulson had pronounced it He-RON-o-MO MarKEZ and everyone just called him Hero.

  Hero was a pair of front teeth with a little Spanish kid tucked in behind. He didn’t look like he was going to grow into those teeth any time soon. But, you know, maybe in time ... maybe if his parents were really tall...

  I yanked myself back out of my head – maybe I should get a grip and stop talking to myself when there were other people out there trying to have a conversation with me. And I really shouldn’t be staring at anyone’s teeth. Not with blue-marble eyes, and a jet-black widow’s peak that framed my milk-bottle skin into a pasty heart shape. I really wasn’t in any position to be lookist.

  Blair Boniface blinked behind his spectacles. ‘I don’t mind dunces. We could play that, if you want.’ He blinked nervously at Joey. ‘You know, for a change.’

  Joey shrugged again. ‘Whatever.’

  He sloped back over to the handball court that was painted onto the concrete floor of the undercroft. ‘I’m ace.’ He pointed at Jironomo. ‘Hero, you can be king and BB, you’re queen.’

  ‘I guess that makes me dunce.’ I didn’t mind; it was well within my comfort zone. I ambled over to the dunce’s square and was startled by Joey’s sudden shout.

  ‘PURPLE DRAGON!’

  The handball hit me square in the sternum, a full-on peg.

  Joey Castellaro smiled. ‘I guess that makes you double-dunce, Hobson.’

  I rubbed at my chest. OK, so purple dragon obviously meant duck. Gotcha. ‘Any other local rules I need to know about?’

  He shrugged and swaggered back to serve again.

  I was ready this time, but it was a regular serve, hard and low. I tapped it back, so that it fell just over the line. It was a good return; he’d never get to it before the second bounce.

  ‘M-and-Ms!’ He slammed it back after the second bounce, catching me off-guard, yet again. ‘Hobson, you’re too slow. Triple-dunce!’

  I cracked my neck and primed myself for the next round. M-and-Msmust allow a double bounce. I was going to get the hang of this if it killed me.

  His next serve went to Hero, who batted it to BB. He bounced it to me and I hit it straight back at him. Standard handball. We had a nice little rally going until Joey Castellaro burst into my square s
creaming ‘GHOSTS!’

  I flubbed the return and spun on him. ‘What the hell! What do you think you’re doing, Castellaro? Just making it up as you go along?’

  BB adjusted his glasses. ‘Well, you can interfere if you say “Ghosts”, just as long as you don’t touch the ball.’

  ‘We thought you knew that,’ said Hero. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything,’ snorted Joey Castellaro. ‘That’s why he’s a quadruple-dunce.’ He clicked his fingers at BB. ‘Here – give us the ball.’

  His attitude was starting to bug me. ‘Why should he? Why can’t BB have a serve?’

  ‘Ace always serves.’ He grabbed the ball and shook his head. ‘You really don’t know anything about handball, do you, Hobson?’

  I looked away, gritting my teeth, totally unprepared for what happened next.

  ‘PURPLE DRAGON!’

  The handball caught me right in the chops, mashing my lips into my braces. I spun and walked away, so that they wouldn’t see the tears of pain that had sprung into my eyes. Luckily, the ball had ricocheted off me and rolled up against the wall of the undercroft, so it looked like I was just going to get it. I took my time to pick it up and walk back to a handball court that had gone quiet.

  Hero sucked at his teeth. ‘You OK?’

  I nodded.

  BB blinked at me from behind his glasses. ‘You want a tissue?’

  I shook my head. Please God, don’t let them think that I was crying.

  ‘You sure? ’Cos you got a bit of, uh–’ He gestured vaguely at the side of his mouth. ‘A bit of blood, you know, trickling down–’

  I wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and stared down at the bright red streak. My braces might need some adjustment and I wasn’t sure if Mum was still friends with the orthodontist who had installed them.

  I walked up to Joey Castellaro, slapped the ball into his chest and kept right on walking.

  The library loomed before me. I should have thought of that earlier. Burying myself in a book was a far safer option than setting myself up for another ambush on the handball court. I’d had enough blood sports for one day.