by Darren Groth
Have lots of fun!
Totally jealous.
Why didn’t you take me with you?
‘No idea,’ I murmur.
I close Facebook, go to my mail and click Compose. I type in the subject heading: Here Now.
Hey Mum and Dad
Arrived okay. Pick-up went fine at Brisbane Airport. I’m here with the Hydes – they’re cool. We had barbecued barramundi (an Aussie fish) for supper. It tasted great, although it was a bit burnt. The Hydes have promised to take good care of me.
School starts Wednesday, the day after Australia Day.
Will write again soon.
M
I click Send and flick my right hand, trying to shake off the familiar pain bearing down on each and every knuckle.
Are you ever going to tell your mum and dad about me, Munro? About how you talk to me all the time?
You’re the one who always starts the talking, Coyote.
You told Ollie about our little chats. But she doesn’t know everything.
She knows enough.
Will you tell the Hydes? Maybe someone at your new school?
No.
How come?
Because I won’t have to.
How come?
Because this is where it ends! This is where you get off! Okay? When I go back home, I won’t have the bad thoughts and the freeze-ups and the pain and the sadness. And I won’t have to fucking hear you any more! I won’t!
Climbing into bed, I look around the room. An Aboriginal painting hangs above the corner desk. It’s some sort of lizard done in the dot style I saw once on the Knowledge Network. Surf magazines are fanned out on the lowest shelf of the TV stand. A tiny stuffed koala clings to the stem of the pedestal fan.
I count out five deep breaths and pull the thin sheet up to my neck.
Do you really believe that, Munro? About this ending in Australia?
Yes.
So you never want to think about Evie again?
Of course not. I will always remember her. I just want to have the good thoughts. And I want to be in control of those thoughts. When, where. Which ones.
You’re stuck because of her.
I’m not stuck because of Evie. It’s not her fault. It’s mine.
SUSSEX HIGH
I’ve seen my share of counsellor offices this past year.
This one belongs to Ms MacGillivray, Sussex Guidance Officer. It doesn’t fit the usual mould. Yes, there are the motivational messages on posters and notepads and screensavers: Always set the trail, never follow the path; Success is a journey, not a destination; and Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude. But there’s also Believe in yourself, because the rest of us think you’re a tool and Everything in life is easier when you know the cheat codes. Then there are the roller-derby merch and ads, framed Bris-Banshee T-shirts with signatures all over, a maroon helmet with a yellow star on the side. Several framed action pics feature Ms MacGillivray herself in fluoro orange skates, busting through a pack in camo get-up, sitting in the penalty box with arms extended. According to the captions, her derby name is Bail ’Er Swift.
‘First day at Sussex!’ she says, elbows resting on her desk. She has a big yellow bruise on her right arm. ‘How are you finding it, Munro?’
‘Okay so far, Ms MacGillivray.’
‘Call me Ms Mac. Uniform looks great.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Bit of a change from the fashion show back home, I imagine.’
‘I wasn’t much of a model anyway.’
Ms Mac smirks and says, ‘Nice!’
I hear it as noise. In my short time in Australia, there’s been a lot of noise.
‘Subject selection all right?’ she asks.
‘I think so.’
‘Good. Your situation is not that different to the other 11s. You want to take the best possible marks and credits into your final year of secondary school. Your Year 12 will be back in Canada, of course, but the subjects are comparable and transferable. We can talk about that a bit more once you’re underway, hey?’ She takes a sip from a travel mug. ‘The purpose of this little check-in is much more casual. I’d like to get to know you a tad.’ She waits, allowing me to fully absorb the statement. I suppress a yawn. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘Give’r.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Just a Canadian expression. It means “go nuts”.’
‘Give’r.’ Ms Mac writes it down on a Post-it. ‘So, tell me, you’re from Vancouver?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great city. Family?’
‘Mum and Dad. Married. To each other.’
‘Brothers, sisters?’
‘No.’
‘Just you?’
‘Just me.’
Ms Mac scribbles another note. I look away. A groundskeeper framed in the window is fertilising the main courtyard garden.
She’ll find out about Evie, Munro.
No, she won’t.
You’ve already told the Hydes. They’ll tell her.
They don’t know squat. And they won’t say a word, to her or anyone else. I made them promise yesterday.
You’re treating her like she never existed.
No, I’m not.
‘Munro. Hey, Munro. You with me?’
‘Um, yeah. I’m with you. Sorry.’
‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
Ms Mac dips her head to the side, closes an eye, points a finger. She’s taking aim with her guidance gun. ‘You were off with the fairies, there.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. This is a big change. Six months is a long time to be out of your comfort zone.’
I suck in a breath, exhale. ‘For sure.’
‘You’re in good hands with the Hydes, though. They’re top shelf. Did Rowan tell you his father’s a legend in this town?’
‘Uh, no. He didn’t.’
‘I’ll let him fill you in.’
Ms MacGillivray says getting to know me has not yet reached a tad, but this is a good moment to inform me about all the amazing cultural opportunities at Sussex. Challenges and olympiads, workshops and camps. There is the Computational and Algorithmic Thinking Competition and something else called the Sleek Geeks Science Eureka Prize. The school has more bands than Coachella. The compulsory volunteering program kicks off next week – a great chance to do some good for the community and myself, she assures me.
‘Now then,’ Ms Mac says. ‘The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question … What is your “-er” word?’
‘My “-er” word?’
‘Yep. What is your “-er” word, Munro?’ She drums the desk, her short fingernails painted with yellow lightning bolts against a black background. Her smile widens with each passing second. The bruise on her arm is staring at me.
‘I’m sorry, miss … I don’t …’
Ms Mac rises and gestures for me to follow. We end up in front of the picture of her in the penalty box yelling at the unseen ref.
‘Every Sussex student should have a goal for the year – well, for you it’s six months – and in my experience it helps to attach an “-er” word to it. Smarter, happier. Clearer.’ She points at the picture. ‘Louder. Whatever “-er” word you choose, it should always be in the back of your head, informing everything you do.’ She holds up a hand. ‘Now, don’t feel like you need to come up with your word right this minute. Pretty much every student takes some time to think about it, stew it over, before they come back to me and –’
‘I have it, miss.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I have my “-er” word.’
Ms Mac does a minor double-take. ‘That might be a record.’ She taps out a brief rhythm on her thigh. ‘Okay then, hit me.’
Can I guess?
No.
Taller?
What did I say?
Super?
Shut up!
It can’t be ‘brother’.
I flex m
y right hand.
‘“Better” is my word, miss. I want to be better.’
‘Ready to meet the gang?’ Rowan asks.
‘I guess.’
We skirt the library and the art studio. I focus on the things that distance this school from DSS. Gum trees. Shade tarpaulins. A tribute mural to the Flood Heroes of 2011. A collection of highway signs that includes Canberra – 1199 km and Uluru – 2205 km and Broome – 3320 km.
‘How’d it go with Ms Mac?’
‘You mean Bail ’Er Swift?’
Rowan turns, eyebrows high on his forehead. ‘She’s changed her derby name already? Her last one was Kim Karbashian.’
‘She wanted to get to know me a tad.’
‘Did she give you the old “What’s your ‘-er’ word” speech?’
‘You’ve had it, too?’
‘We all have.’ Rowan says hi to a trio of girls. After they pass, I hear murmurings and laughter and new talent. ‘My “-er” word for the year is legendary-er.’
‘Good word.’
We arrive at the soccer field, site of a Welcome back! lunch for senior students. Five food trucks are parked in a semicircle near the centre. A few tables, chairs and benches are strewn around, but most of the students are sitting on the grass. We wander towards a group of four – one boy, three girls – occupying the front right corner of the sideline bleachers. They’re chowing down like it’s the only meal they’ll get all year.
‘You couldn’t wait five minutes?’ asks Rowan, stealing a pierogi from one of the girls and barely escaping a slap.
‘We thought you might be bringing your own truck, Chef Row,’ answers the boy, mouth full of brisket. ‘Although, these are good. And I don’t think they’ll be runnin’ outta food any time soon.’
‘They might if you’re here for another half-hour,’ one of the girls says.
‘Ha! This coming from Renee Hodges, champ of last year’s watermelon eating contest!’
‘That was a comp, this is real life. Or the buffet, as you call it.’
‘Can you two get a room?’
‘Ew, Maevey! I’m tryin’ to eat here!’
‘Munro,’ announces Rowan, ‘meet the gang. Renee, Caro, Digger and Maeve.’
I had hoped ‘the gang’ would resemble the stereotypical Aussies in Whistler – tanned skin, sun-bleached hair, flip-flops, Billabong logos everywhere. Sadly, they’re more like my friends in the valley than their mates on the mountain. Maeve reminds me of Darcy, with her selfie-stick arms and stylish glasses. Renee, sitting cross-legged, both hands on the top knee, back straighter than a prairie highway – she’s totally Shawn, septum ring and all. Digger has Louis’s peach fuzz and startled hair. I sigh. It was unfair to expect these strangers to be a postcard just so I could stomach school again. Actually, now that I think about it, Mr Adams – Evie’s idol, the best Australian who ever lived – was bald and round and wore Denver Hayes jeans that sagged in the crotch. Not exactly a poster boy for the Aussie look.
Caro – she’s a bit different. Nuit, one of a handful of words I remember from Grade 9 French, springs to mind. She’s a collection of dark shades: skin, hair, black leather wristbands, grey Converse. Her expression, though, is all light and bright. Her eyes are big and wide. Her mouth looks ready to break into a smile, even when filled with ramen noodles. The stud in her nose glints like shaved ice in the sun.
Rowan hustles me over to the food trucks. After a scan of menus, I go for an Oz Burger, which includes a fried egg and beetroot. We head back to the group, and I dig in, trying to give off the YOLO-teen vibe.
‘I can’t wait for The Addams Family,’ says Maeve. ‘It’s so cool we’re doing that for our musical.’
‘You going to audition?’ asks Renee.
‘Hells yeah! I want to play Wednesday. If not her, then Morticia.’
‘As long as it’s not Fester.’
‘Word.’
Digger looks over at Rowan and me. ‘You got any idea what they’re talking about?’
‘None,’ replies Rowan, scrutinising his samosa. ‘How about you, Renee? What have you got circled on the calendar?’
‘Hmm, it’s a toss-up between Vaccination Day and the athletics carnival.’
‘Ooh yeah, tough choice.’
‘And you, Mr My Kitchen Rules? You counting the days until the Great State High School Cook-off?’
‘Nope. I’m all about the ski trip in July.’ Rowan spreads his feet, extends his arms and performs a series of gyrations, more hula dance than snowboard shred. ‘Your turn, Digs. Lemme guess – driving your old man’s Prius to school?’
Digger shakes his head. ‘Semi-formal. I’m going to have the best date of anyone there.’ He eyes each one of us in turn. ‘Jessica Mauboy.’
A hush parachutes in. Rowan plays with his phone, then hands it to me. The screen displays Jessica Mauboy’s Wikipedia page. Twenty-six. Singer. Songwriter. Actress. Runner-up on Australian Idol. Ranked 16 on the Herald Sun list of the 100 Greatest Australian Singers of All Time. The one credit I recognise is her starring role in The Sapphires. It was one of many Australian movies Evie tracked down on Netflix. She watched them all at least twice.
‘Jessica Mauboy, A-list celeb, and Corey “Digger” Dulwich, BMX prodigy.’ Rowan nods slowly. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Why the hell not!’ repeats Maeve.
‘I can see it happening,’ says Caro.
‘I think you might be a bit too good for her, but whatever,’ adds Renee.
The group looks my way. I swallow my final chunk of Oz Burger. ‘Try not to break her heart, eh?’
Digger bites his bottom lip. His Adam’s apple begins to bounce. He gets to his feet, descends the bleachers and jogs over to the food trucks.
‘He might be a while,’ says Rowan. ‘You’re up, Caro.’
‘Mmm, hard act to follow.’ Caro shifts into a lotus position on the bench. ‘What I am looking forward to the most in Year 11 is … I’d have to say it’s the end.’ A chorus of groans prompts her to elaborate. ‘I’m not dreading the year. Totally the opposite, in fact. This year is gonna be great – our best yet. I honestly believe that, and that’s why the end is the best part. We’ll be more grown up. We’ll have learned new things, made new friends.’ She glances in my direction. ‘And we’ll be doing it together.’
Maeve gives Caro’s forearm a squeeze. ‘That’s a beautiful speech, babe. You’re gonna be an awesome lawyer one day. Don’t you agree, Renee?’
‘Ha! She said “doing it”.’
‘There you go. Renee agrees, too.’
Rowan gestures to me. ‘Lucky last, Munro.’
I fold my paper plate in half, scan for the nearest bin. ‘I’m the newbie. You guys don’t want to hear from me.’
‘Rubbish, mate. You’re one of us now! You’re wearing our dope uniform. You ate your first Oz Burger. You’ve already had a heart-to-heart with Ms Mac. Tell us – what are you fired up for?’
I look at the group’s expectant faces.
They’re all watching, Munro.
Just like at DSS, when the ambulance arrived, when it left.
At the funeral.
I lower my gaze towards the folded plate balancing on my lap.
‘I’m with Caro,’ I say. ‘I’m looking forward to the end.’
On the train home, Rowan slouches in the seat across from me. As we pass through a tunnel, he drops his headphones from his ears to his neck, digs in his back pocket and hands me an ad for a place called Liber8.
‘It’s one of those escape room set-ups,’ he says. ‘You get locked away and you’ve got an hour to use the clues to find a way out. Heard of ’em?’
I nod. ‘My friend Louis did one in Richmond. It was like an ancient Egyptian tomb or something.’
‘Sweet. Apparently, this one has an asylum like they used to have here in Brissie. I’ve got some discount passes. Me and the gang are gunna go do it Friday week. Keen?’
‘Um, yeah. Sure.’
‘Beauty.�
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Rowan takes back the paper, his grin crooked and twitchy. ‘You and Caro hit it off, hey?’
‘I guess so.’
‘The two of you had a good chat on the way back from lunch.’
‘Just sort of happened. I hope I wasn’t outta line.’
‘Nope.’
‘She wanted to know about Canada.’
‘She wanted to know about you.’ Rowan removes his headphones, starts winding the cord around the earpieces. ‘I noticed when Caro asked you about your fam, you said you were an only child.’
I pause my game of Temple Run. ‘Thanks for not spilling the beans.’
‘Hey, they’re your beans.’ Rowan looks out the window. ‘I know you’ve only just met ’em, but if you did want to tell the gang about your sister, I know they’d be chill about it.’
A lull creeps into the conversation. The guy behind me is telling friends about a parkour shoot he’s planning. The pouty girls across the aisle are comparing ‘slags’ on The Bachelor. A younger crew, probably Grade 8s, are discussing Splatoon strategy.
‘Ms Mac said your dad is a legend in Brisbane.’
Rowan runs a hand down his school tie. ‘Yeah, he is.’
‘What did he do …? If you’re cool with telling me.’
‘It’s cool. You would’ve found out soon enough.’ Rowan shifts, puts his hands on his knees and brings his feet together. He looks like he’s posing for a family photo. ‘Dad swam out and saved a guy in the Logan River during the 2011 floods. Pulled him out of his car. He was given the Star of Courage and the Queensland Police Service Valour Award, which is the highest honour in the state for a cop.’
‘I didn’t realise he was a policeman.’
‘Retired in 2014. Permanent medical leave.’
I leave a good-sized space for Rowan to continue, but he slips back into his slouch. There are things I want to ask – impressions dying for a few details – but I keep quiet.
I’m not the only one telling stories on my own terms.
For supper, the Hydes take me to a local restaurant called Thai Me Kangaroo Down. The conversation starts off harmless. I pass on a few news items, things I have a vague awareness of since arriving in Oz. The past year was the hottest yet, but it was only the eleventh hottest in Canadian history. The cover art of Drake’s upcoming album, Views, couldn’t be any worse than his If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late mixtape. True to my prediction at the start of the season, the Canucks have no chance to make the NHL play-offs.
