Dreamrider

by Barry Jonsberg

  We drove through slowly changing suburbs where the houses were more run-down. Some of the shops had boards on the windows. Cars were older, gardens less cared for. And then we pulled out on a main road and I could see the school in the distance. It had to be.

  I knew at once I wasn’t going to like it. The buildings looked clean, but they were too close together, jammed in and uncomfortable. Kids were milling outside, getting out of cars or walking from the bus stop. I couldn’t tell anything about the school from them. Kids are the same everywhere. But at least they knew each other. I knew no one.

  Dad pulled into the bus bay.

  ‘Stay out of trouble, okay?’ he said.

  There was no point telling him I didn’t have much choice, that trouble found me. He saw things differently.

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘And check out the sports. See if they’ve got a boxing club.’

  I nodded. He said this at every school. None of them ever had a boxing club. I’d given up telling him.

  I got out and he drove off without another word.

  I hate that first time, standing across the road from a school and knowing you’ve got to go in, sort things out, talk to people, attend classes with strangers staring at you. I had done it many times, but I still hated it. I crossed the road quickly and went in through the gates.

  I wanted to get inside the building but they hadn’t opened the doors. I was forced to wait on the expanse of concrete outside the main entrance, an island among continents of surging kids. I kept my head down and tried to be invisible.

  ‘Hey.’

  I shifted the school bag on my shoulder and glanced up, without moving my head. The voice was light and friendly, but that doesn’t always mean safe.

  She was small and rounded, with dark hair that swung across her eyes. I took in the basic details and looked down again. Her eyes, beneath the curtain of hair, were kind. I always notice the eyes first.

  ‘New kid?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I mumbled. I shifted the straps on my school bag again.

  ‘Can I help?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Have you got a timetable?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well. That’s the first thing you need to get sorted. Go to the office. They’ll help.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said to the floor.

  ‘No worries. See you round, maybe.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks,’ I added, but she had gone. A friendly kid. I was grateful for that. And sorry I hadn’t been more friendly in return.

  The bell sounded. It was harsh and cold. Kids flooded towards various entrances. I moved as well. If you want to be invisible, it’s good to move with the crowds.

  I suppose I wasn’t looking where I was going. Too focused on the door and not paying enough attention. I caught the boy with my shoulder, knocking his drink carton. A spurt of iced coffee landed on his arm even though he arched his body away.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

  He didn’t reply. He just glared at me, pale blue eyes below a fringe of tangled red hair. I thought briefly of offering to buy him another drink, but I decided it wasn’t wise.

  ‘Sorry,’ I repeated and turned away towards the steps. I could feel his eyes on my back.

  It was dark inside the school and there was a musty smell of old papers. At least the signs on the walls were clear and I found my way to the office quickly. A woman took my name and I sat in the waiting area. Kids wandered through the office, collecting timetables, checking in skateboards. One or two glanced at me, but I looked the other way. After about five minutes, another woman came out from an office down the corridor and called my name. I followed her. She sat behind a desk and I sat in a soft chair facing her. She tapped on a keyboard and then smiled at me.

  ‘Welcome to Millways High School, Michael. I’m Miss Palmer and I’m the Assistant Principal in charge of curriculum. We hope you’re going to be happy here.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss,’ I said.

  She had kind eyes, like the girl outside. Two people promising kindness. That didn’t happen often on the first day. It offered a balance to the bad feelings that seemed soaked into the school building. Her eyes were brown and soft, with a tinge of severity beneath the surface, as if her mood could switch quickly. Her hair was grey and coarse, tied back from her face and clipped at the nape of her neck. It made her appear stern. Maybe that was the idea. I took in all this in one sideways glance.

  I’m good at details. I suppose it’s because I keep looking for differences. It makes you pay attention.

  ‘Now. Your father has already done the paperwork for your enrolment, Michael, so I just have to give you your timetable and take you to Home Group. Your Home Group teacher is Mr Atkins. You’ll like him. He’s the person who arranges everything for you, does all the administration. And he’s the person you would go to if you were experiencing any problems. Social as well as academic. So, he’s your closest contact at the school, at least among the teaching staff. Do you understand?’

  I nodded. Miss Palmer took a sheet from the printer beside her computer and handed it to me.

  ‘Here’s your timetable,’ she said. ‘You’ll soon get used to the place. Anywhere new seems strange at first, but it won’t take you long to settle down, I’m sure.’

  She leaned back in her chair. There was something else she wanted to say, but she didn’t know how to tackle it. I waited.

  ‘Now, Michael . . . or do you prefer Mike?’

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Well, Michael. I’ve not yet received reports from your previous schools, but your father told me you had been to several in the last few years. Can you remember how many?’

  I shrugged. ‘Seven.’

  ‘Seven! In, what . . .’ She glanced down at the enrolment form. ‘Less than four years?’ She smiled. ‘I guess you don’t need me to tell you about coming to terms with strange places. You must be quite the expert. But your father also said you’ve had bad experiences in the past. Some bullying.’ She tapped her front teeth with a pen. ‘Can you tell me anything about that?’

  I shrugged and studied a poster over her right shoulder. I was starting to like Miss Palmer. She seemed honest, and that hadn’t been the case in my other schools. Bullying was something they wanted to keep buried. Maybe Miss Palmer didn’t see it like that. I wasn’t sure it would change anything, but that was beside the point.

  There was a silence for a few moments. Miss Palmer looked me over. She was deciding whether to bring up the subject of my weight. I was interested to see if she had the courage.

  ‘Michael, I wish I could give a guarantee you won’t be bullied here, but we both know I can’t do that. Kids are, I’m afraid, pretty much the same wherever you go, and some are not very tolerant of . . . differences. What I can say is, the school won’t tolerate bullying of any kind. We take the matter very seriously. However, we can’t do much if we don’t know it’s happening. I want you to promise, Michael, that you will report straight to me if you have a problem, and I’ll nip it in the bud. Do you promise?’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ I said, though it was a lie. It wasn’t as easy as that. Miss Palmer knew it too. I could tell from her eyes.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Well, let’s hope it’s not necessary. Most of the kids here are decent. But there is a minority. . . Anyway, time to take you to Home Group.’

  I picked up my bag and followed her down the corridor. We walked through a courtyard with a patch of grass and a few benches scattered around. The windows of the building crowded me. I felt I was being watched. Everywhere was silent. I tried to fix the scene in my mind. I do that all the time. It helps when I’m spotting differences. It’s become a habit.

  We went up a flight of stairs and along another corridor. The inside of the school was in a bad state. The walls hadn’t been painted in years and there were cracks in the tiles. Classroom doors were scuffed and paint was peeling. There was a smell of dampness.

  ‘This is A Block,’ said Miss Palmer. �
�The rooms are numbered according to the floor. This is the first floor, so the first number is always a ‘1’ here. Mr Atkins will give you a student diary which has a map in it. You’ll get used to it. Your Home Group is in A15. Here we are.’

  We stood outside the door for a moment. This was always the worst time, wondering what was on the other side. Then again, the first day was full of worst times. The first lesson, the first teacher, the first student you had to sit with, the first recess. I composed my face. There was nothing for it but to go in.

  The footsteps were loud on the tiles. Miss Palmer and I turned at the same time. A boy was walking towards us. He had red hair and a damp patch on the sleeve of his T-shirt. I turned my eyes quickly back to the door of A15.

  ‘Jamie Archer,’ said Miss Palmer. ‘Why aren’t you in Home Group?’

  ‘Had to clean my shirt, Miss. Some Wrenbury spilled iced coffee over me.’

  ‘Just hurry, Jamie.’

  I could hear his footsteps down the corridor. I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck.

  ‘Do you want me to come in and introduce you?’ asked Miss Palmer.

  I shrugged.

  ‘No thanks, Miss.’

  I knew that would only make it worse, like a kid being brought in by his mum. Miss Palmer seemed to understand.

  ‘I’ll leave you here, then,’ she said. ‘Have a good day, Michael. And remember what I said about bullying.’

  She started to walk off.

  ‘Miss?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Michael?’

  ‘What’s a Wrenbury?’

  She pinched the top of her nose and closed her eyes.

  ‘Wrenbury is a place, Michael. It’s a local school for students with special needs.’

  I nodded. That made sense.

  There were sounds coming from behind the closed door, a quiet murmur of conversation, punctuated by a giggle or a shout. I waited until Miss Palmer had disappeared down the corridor, took a deep breath and opened the door.

  3 .

  It was as if I had flicked a switch. Everyone in the room went quiet and sixteen or seventeen kids turned to stare at me.

  I went red. I couldn’t help it. It always happened, no matter how hard I fought. I stood in the doorway and tried to take in as much of the room as possible while keeping my head down. Eye contact didn’t seem like a good idea.

  The classroom was lit by a bank of windows along the far side of the room. Desks were arranged in groups and the sun slanted across the back two. ‘I love dick’ was written across the back of one chair in black texta. Most of the desks had graffiti on them, and plastic was peeling where kids had scraped metal rulers across the edges. The ceiling had strip lighting in panels and a few were cracked. One light flickered. But it was a nice room. I liked it. The sun shining on the back wall gave it warmth. It was a place where someone could be happy.

  To my right was a whiteboard. In front of that was a teacher’s desk. Sitting behind the desk, marking a roll, was a teacher, Mr Atkins presumably. He was chewing on a pen. He stood and came towards me. Mr Atkins was tall, about fifty years old, with thinning grey hair. His eyes sparked with humour and friendliness. But I also noticed that the spark was only on the surface; I could read unhappiness beneath it.

  ‘You must be Michael,’ he said, offering his hand.

  I moved to take it, but at the last moment he withdrew and reached up towards my face. I took a half step backwards, but it was too late. He tapped my nose lightly and then withdrew his hand and opened it. In the palm lay a shining two-dollar coin. He grinned and a groan ran around the class.

  ‘Take no notice of these cynics, Michael. They are worldweary and far too old for their tender years.’ He leaned towards me, as if to whisper a secret. ‘You and I know there is always, always room for wonder and that if we do not embrace the impossible then the only thing we are left with is the plain and ugly world of the possible. How dull!’

  He extended his hand again, the coin gold against the white of his palm. This time I took it and he gave my hand a firm shake. There was no metal hardness as I pressed back. The coin had disappeared. Mr Atkins winked at me.

  ‘We’ve been expecting you. Welcome to Home Group 21, the worst Home Group in the entire school, full of delinquents, losers and the terminally dysfunctional. If you fall into this category, Michael, then you have found your spiritual home. If not . . . and if I am any judge, you are none of those things . . . then just sit back and enjoy the show.’

  He put his hand on my shoulder and turned to face the class.

  ‘Losers and delinquents, may I introduce Michael, the new member of our Home Group. Now, if it wasn’t bad enough that he drew the shortest of straws in getting allocated to us, Michael also suffers from knowing no one in the entire institution. Michael has come from interstate. Why, you might ask – and it would be a good question, since anyone who has been here for a few months understands that the rational thing is to head away from this place rather than towards it. Be that as it may, Michael is here, for good or ill, and we need to allocate him a mentor, someone to show him around, point out where the smokers go to get away from teachers, usher him in the direction of the culinary centrepiece of this wonderful place of learning, the canteen, and generally show him what’s what. I need a volunteer. Lauren. Thank you very much.’

  The class hadn’t moved and there were certainly no volunteers, but I could see this was going to be Mr Atkins’s style. He sighed theatrically and led me towards a group of girls at the back. One of the girls had a small smile on her face. Her eyes told me she liked Mr Atkins.

  ‘Lauren, my dear,’ said Mr Atkins. ‘You do understand that when I was referring to losers and delinquents, you were the exception to the rule, a shining light in the otherwise bleak assemblage of those who pass for students in this place. Lauren, meet Michael. Michael, this is Lauren Moss. One of Millways High School’s finest. Lauren, take care of him. He seems a decent boy and we don’t want him corrupted too soon, now do we? Michael, I leave you in Lauren’s tender care.’

  Mr Atkins winked at both of us and disappeared back to the front of the class. I shuffled from foot to foot, while Lauren looked me up and down. She didn’t seem impressed.

  ‘So what do you need to know, Michael?’ Lauren said. She said it pleasantly, but there was an edge to her voice, a hint of irritation. Even as she spoke, her gaze switched back to her friends.

  ‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what I need to know.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lauren. She wasn’t listening. Suddenly I made a decision. It was easier this way.

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ I said. ‘Go back to your friends, if you want.’

  ‘You sure?’

  She didn’t try to hide her eagerness.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I can meet you at recess, if you want. Show you around.’ She was attempting a trade-off so she’d feel better.

  ‘Nah. I’ll be right.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  So she returned to her friends, while I shuffled to a space at the back of the class and sat, gazing out the window. I didn’t even notice when someone else approached from my right. A shadow fell and I glanced up.

  It was the girl from outside. The girl with the kind eyes. I risked a closer look, darting my eyes between her face and the tiles on the floor. Her dark hair came to her jawline and then swept up and under. She was plump. Nothing like my size, of course, but definitely rounded. Her eyes were deep and brown, filled with kindness. It was all I could do not to stare at them. I glanced back at the floor, briefly taking in a nose that was slightly too wide and a mouth that turned down at the edges. She was not pretty, not really. But there was a warmth about her.

  I took all this in quickly. I even risked checking out the classroom. The other students had returned to their conversations, but I could tell by their sidelong glances that they were weighing me up, so to speak. A couple of the boys were leaning in to each other and laughing.

  Th
e girl sat next to me and smiled.

  ‘Hi, again. I’m Leah McIntyre. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Michael Terny.’

  She smiled at me for a moment, as if unsure what to say next.

  ‘Phew. You’re a big one, Michael,’ she said finally, but her eyes gave the true story. She wasn’t being nasty. She was being honest. I liked that.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Fattest kid you’ve ever seen, probably.’

  ‘Yep,’ she said. ‘And I’ve seen a few. Not that I’ve got anything to shout about.’ She patted herself on the stomach. ‘A little too fond of the cakes.’ She laughed. ‘Well, it’s more of a love affair, really.’

  I smiled. I knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘Do you get shit about your weight?’ she asked.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Hmm.’ She thought for a while. ‘Anyway, fat Mick, let’s see your timetable. I might be able to help you out.’

  ‘It’s Michael,’ I said. ‘Fat Michael to you.’

  She grinned. I liked her. I didn’t care that the other students were laughing at us.

  When the bell went for first lesson, Mr Atkins took me to the door. He gave me a student diary and a pat on the back.

  ‘A small token of our esteem and respect,’ he said.

  For some reason, as I walked down the corridor, I felt inside my pocket. My hand closed around a coin. I didn’t need to take it out to know that it was a two-dollar coin. A gleaming two-dollar coin that hadn’t been there before.

  I had Maths first. I sat at the side of the class. If you sit at the front, you get marked as a nerd, and you can’t sit at the back. That’s where the tough kids hang and I didn’t want to provoke anyone.