BARRY JONSBERG lives in Darwin in the Northern Territory. He divides his time between writing and part-time teaching and finds it very difficult to do one without the other. Dreamrider is his third novel for young adults.
The whole business with Kiffo and the Pitbull was shortlisted in the 2005 Children’s Book Council Book of the Year Awards, Older Readers. It’s not all about YOU, Calma! won the 2006 Adelaide Festival Award, Children’s Literature. Both books are enjoying international success.
PRAISE FOR:
THE WHOLE BUSINESS WITH KIFFO
AND THE PITBULL
‘This is the best teen fiction I have read in years. Barry Jonsberg’s first novel is an absolute riot. The whole business with Kiffo and the Pitbull, should be on every Year 10 syllabus in the country. If this book doesn’t make them want to read, nothing will.’
Cameron Woodhead, THE AGE
‘Jonsberg’s writing is fresh and bites with fierce teenage realism.’
AUSTRALIAN BOOKSELLER & PUBLISHER
‘This first novel is very funny, serious and brilliant.’
Centre for Youth Literature
‘Witty and original, this is one story not to be missed.’
Bea, YARA website
IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU, CALMA!
‘This book is one I found impossible to put down after finishing chapter one.’
Christine, YARA website
‘Entertaining and thoroughly rewarding – It’s not all about YOU, Calma! resonates throughout with a tender and humane realism. Highly recommended.’
AUSTRALIAN BOOKSELLER & PUBLISHER
Barry Jonsberg
Dreamrider
First published in 2006
Copyright © Barry Jonsberg 2006
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Jonsberg, Barry, 1951– .
Dreamrider.
ISBN 1 74114 461 2.
I. Title.
A823.4
Design by Ellie Exarchos
Set in 10.5/16 Apollo by Midland Typesetters
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Teachers’ notes for Dreamrider
are available from www.allenandunwin.com
For Brendan, Kari, Kris and Lauren
There is something wrong with the light. I’m not sure what. I’m not sure of anything.
I keep my eyes closed. It’s easier. I focus on the pain in my leg and the pain in my arm.
Pain is simple.
Unlike everything else.
When I open my eyes, the light is a blade. I feel the sides of the bed. Hard, cold, burning. People move within the light, touching, talking and then leaving. I don’t trust them.
I’m sick. I don’t know where I am. Why, is too big a question. So I close my eyes and hug the darkness with pain at its centre. I am drowning in a sea of doubt. Memories are my lifeline. Images appear in the dark.
I remember . . .
Contents
Monday
1
2
3
4
Tuesday
1
2
3
4
Wednesday
1
2
3
4
5
6
Thursday
1
2
3
4
5
6
Friday
1
2
3
4
5
Saturday
Author’s note
Acknowledgements
1 .
I killed two kids at school today.
My first day. I wandered the school grounds, looking for differences. The way the sun hit the grass, the arrangement of litter, the smells.
They came at me from opposite sides. I kept my head down. Part of me knew it would do no good, but I walked and watched from the edge of vision.
‘Hey. You. Fat bastard.’
On cue. Like a film you’ve seen before so you know the words before they’re spoken. I walked. Kept my head down, looking for differences. I couldn’t see any.
‘I’m talking to you, fat bastard.’
I stopped. But I kept my head down. Still.
A blade of grass. I watched. It differed. Maybe the way the spine curved, or the sheen of green. Wrong, somehow. An insect crawled along the blade’s curve. It changed the world. Everything changes the world – the insect on the grass, the shadows over the oval.
They arrived. I heard their breathing. Their dark shadows slanted across the grass. I waited.
‘I’m talking to you, fat boy. And when I’m talking to you, you should look at me.’
‘Yeah. Look at him, fat boy.’
I looked at him. He had freckles. A face someone had doodled on, not getting the patches of colour right. Dark red hair. Matted, as though he hadn’t showered in a week. His eyes were light blue, the colour of pale flowers in cold climates. I tried to see beyond them. I can do that. There was only pain, loneliness and fear. There’s always fear.
We stared at each other, the fat boy and the boy with ice for eyes.
And I waited.
‘So what have you got to say for yourself, fat boy? Eh? Why’d you ignore me? Too good for me? Is that it, huh? He thinks he’s too good for us, Damien.’
Damien was small, thin and wiry. An athlete. His eyes were screwed up. I couldn’t read them because he was facing the sun. He stood like someone who owned the ground beneath him.
‘Yeah. I reckon, Callum. Why do you think you’re too good for us, fat boy?’
‘I’m just a fat boy,’ I said. ‘That’s all. I’m not too good for you. I’m not good enough. I’m fat. I’m nothing.’
The red-haired boy was confused. It happens that way sometimes. They want the right to attack. But I was agreeing. If they bashed me now, they’d feel bad about themselves. And they wanted their punches to be pure. Righteous.
The red-haired boy shifted, put his hands on his hips.
‘Are you taking the piss, fat boy?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Well, I think you are. What do you reckon, Damien? Is he taking the piss?’
‘Yeah. He’s taking the piss big time. You’re asking for it, fat bastard. So why don’t you say you’re sorry? Maybe if you apologise, we’ll forget it this time.’
The red-haired boy moved in a little.
‘Yeah. We need an apology, fat boy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
Callum poked me in the chest with a hard finger.
‘You need to show you’re sorry. How about on your knees? Yeah, get on your knees and say you’re sorry for taking the piss.’
So I got down on my knees. In the middle of the ova
l. As though I was praying. I bent my head. The blade of grass was closer now and still wrong. I focused. The insect climbed its plane, the east face of a green mountain. I counted the legs. They seemed right. And then I saw the difference.
It was subtle. The way the light hit the stalk. The sun was behind me, and the boys’ shadows pointed away, towards where it would set. But the light on this blade of grass came from the wrong direction. The right side of the blade was polished, burnished by light, and the left shadowed. Wrong. The tip of the blade, curved away from me, should have been touched by gold.
I knew. So I stood.
‘I told you to get on your knees, fat boy,’ said Callum.
I looked at him closely. Once I notice the first difference, even if it’s small, others follow, bigger and bigger, until the whole world is different. Callum’s eyes were brown now. His freckles shifted into a birthmark on his right cheek. His hair was a darker shade of red. Like rust.
I could take my time, so I turned to Damien. He had shrunk and the athlete was gone. He no longer squinted into the sun, because the sun had moved directly above us. I wanted it that way.
‘I’m not sorry,’ I said. ‘I haven’t done anything to be sorry about. You started this. Not me. So I’m not sorry and I’m not getting down on my knees.’
Callum glanced at his mate. My words were a detour into unfamiliar territory and he had no map to give directions. I wanted him to bluster. So he did.
‘I don’t care what you think, fat boy,’ he said. ‘I don’t give a shit. So you’d better say sorry real quick or . . .’
‘I’ll be sorry?’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you what I think and you’ll listen. Every school I’ve been to, you were there. Sometimes you were taller, sometimes smaller. Your hair changes, your clothes change, but you don’t. Not what’s inside. It’s always dark. I can taste it, that darkness. And it tastes of blood and fear and hopelessness.’
‘You’re weird,’ said Damien.
‘It’s time to hit me,’ I said.
The boys glanced at each other. Nervous. Callum’s eyes shifted back to me. One had turned green. His fist balled and he rocked back on his heels to get the weight right. He was scared, but he had to punch me now. I’d given him no choice.
His fist swung back and I put my face forward a little. I watched as the knuckles arced towards me. It was not a bad punch, considering I had chipped his confidence. I’d felt worse. When his fist landed on my cheek, just below my left eye, I felt the bone give. But I didn’t fall.
Callum stepped back and rubbed his hand. Blood snailed down the side of my face. I smiled.
‘Is that the best you can do?’ I said. ‘Come on, guys. How about the two of you, eh? Here.’
I turned slightly to present them with equal target areas. I opened my legs for balance and put my hands behind my back.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
I kept the sun above me as they punched and kicked. At one point my nose exploded, sending a plume of blood in the air. The droplets glittered and flecked Callum’s cheek. I lost some teeth to another blow. I felt them splinter. I spat the pieces into Damien’s face and smiled.
They stopped then. They stood panting, faces blooded. I wouldn’t let them run, though they wanted to. I was the most terrifying thing they had ever seen. The broken bones, the blood, the smashed teeth. But the greatest horror was my smile.
‘I’m a little disappointed, boys,’ I said. I rolled my bruised tongue around and discovered a couple more shattered teeth. I spat the pieces into my hand and held them out to Callum. He reached out and I placed them into his palm.
‘Here’s what I think,’ I continued. ‘You should apologise to me. I mean, look. I’m a mess, and I didn’t deserve it. The least you can do is say you’re sorry.’
‘Sorry,’ said Damien.
‘Sorry,’ said Callum.
‘On your knees,’ I said.
They started crying then and I allowed that. As they knelt before me, I noticed spreading stains on the front of their shorts. That made me angry. I thought they were more scared than sorry. They were mourning the outcome, not the events before it.
‘Get up,’ I said.
They did, of course. They stood before me, heads bowed. Crushed.
‘You’re not sorry enough,’ I said. ‘So I’m going to have to make you sorry enough.’
I made the sun move and circle. It created a strange effect, the shadows dancing over our bodies. Darkness dappled the grass and washed us. I must have looked more terrifying then, as shadows swirled. My face – my crushed nose, my broken teeth, my bloodied eye-sockets – plunged into darkness briefly, before the grisly mess lit up again. Demonic.
I lifted my arms and the heads of the boys rose, as if connected by a thread to my outstretched fingers. They knew something terrible was going to happen. I let them bathe in the coldness of knowledge while I kept their eyes on the flashing ruin of my face.
I lifted my arms out and above my shoulders. And then I swept down and inwards. I braced my fingers and thrust my hands beneath their ribs. I felt the warm slide into their bodies, flesh parting like water. I fixed attention on their eyes, flooded with dull surprise. I kept my hands still for a moment and then pushed up and in, until I found the slimy knots of muscle, the pulse of blood pumping, jerking. I pulled back down.
The boys stood for a moment, but their eyes were snuffed. They crumpled onto the stained grass. I let the sun revolve once more as I stood above their bodies, then I raised my head and howled my dark joy at the sky.
I knew the glass would be behind me. If I turned – when I turned – I would see the slight curve in its surface and my own young face, a ghostly reflection. There would be nothing behind the glass, but I would sense movement within the blackness at its centre. Then the colours flickering into life. A burst of orange in the top right corner, a streak of yellow. Finally the tight ball of terror as something stirred beneath the surface. Air hot, pain in my chest, a scream frozen on my lips.
I would face that. Later. I spread my bloodied arms and held the world. I’m the fat boy. I’m Michael Terny.
I killed two kids at school today.
2 .
I stood under the shower without moving. I can do that for an hour, sometimes. Just letting the water flow over me. Safe. I didn’t have time today though.
First day of school and the eggs were in the microwave.
I towelled myself dry and thought about clothes. Clothes can make a difference. Not always. Not often, I had to admit. I chose blue shorts. Not too daggy. Plain white T-shirt. Scuffed runners. I examined my image in the wardrobe mirror, but not for long.
As I went into the kitchen, Dad brushed past and into the bathroom. He wasn’t in a good mood. The microwave pinged and I shoved bread into the toaster. Mary stood by the back door. She smiled as I opened the fridge.
‘Sleep well, Michael?’ she asked.
‘Not bad,’ I lied.
‘Nervous about your first day?’
‘A bit.’
The toast popped and I buttered two slices. Not mine. Low fat spread on mine. Dad insisted.
‘Ah, you’ll be right, mate,’ she said. ‘Just don’t take any crap. Okay?’
I nodded, took the eggs from the microwave and put the bowl on the table. Mary came over and lowered her voice.
‘Your lunch is in your bag, Michael. And I think a little extra something might have fallen in. By accident.’ She gave me a slow wink and I had to smile.
‘Thanks,’ I said. She did that for me sometimes. A bag of chips, a chocolate biscuit. It was our secret. Dad would lose it if he knew. I was never allowed to eat from school canteens. He didn’t trust me with food. Trouble often happened at lunchtime, when I was sitting on a bench by myself with low fat yoghurt, crackers, fruit spread out around me. Someone would say something. Someone eating a cheeseburger.
‘What’s t
hat shit, fat boy?’ he’d say. And then I’d have to pretend I hadn’t heard. And then . . .
I spooned scrambled eggs from the bowl onto my toast as Dad came in, hair slicked back, wearing a singlet and thongs. It was his first day too. He sat opposite and glanced at my plate, checking out the portion. He always did that. He rationed everything. Then he helped himself to eggs. Mary sat beside him, but she wasn’t eating. She didn’t do breakfast.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘The men off to work. Warms my heart, so it does.’
Dad just shovelled egg into his mouth. Mary watched us and smiled.
‘You can’t work without a decent breakfast,’ she said. ‘You need to keep your blood sugars up. The pair of you. Stops you flagging during the day.’
‘I’m still hungry,’ I said. That was a mistake. ‘A bit,’ I added.
Dad pointed his fork at me.
‘You’re always hungry, you,’ he said. ‘If you spent less time feeding your face and more time exercising, you wouldn’t be in that bloody state.’
Mary sighed.
‘Now, Joe,’ she said. ‘Come on. Everyone needs a solid breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.’ I thought this was a bit rich, coming from someone who never seemed to eat.
Dad didn’t reply. He finished his meal in silence and glanced at his watch.
‘I’ll give you a lift to school,’ he said. ‘Only today, though.’
I was pleased. I hate that first bus journey to a new school. You can never get a seat. Even if there are plenty of empty seats, they are always being saved for a friend. Even the empty rows turn out to be reserved. And then you have to get up while everyone stares at you.
Mary kissed me on the cheek as I left.
‘Have a good day, Mikey,’ she whispered as I closed the front door.
Dad started up the ute and we set off, belching a black cloud of diesel behind us. The ute had seen better days, but the engine turned over and it got us from A to B. Dad said that was the important thing.
I watched the town roll past. Dad’s not great on small talk and I didn’t have anything to say. I was hoping the school would be in a decent neighbourhood. That can be important. If you’re in a good area, then the kids are less likely to cause trouble, in and out of class. Not always, though. Some of the worst trouble I’ve had has been in ‘good’ middle-class schools. I hadn’t seen my new school yet. Dad had arranged it all. Talked to the Principal, filled out the enrolment forms. Didn’t mention it to me. Mary didn’t know much either, when I asked her. Like I said, Dad wasn’t good at communication and I didn’t push him.
Dreamrider Page 1
