The Sidekicks

by Will Kostakis

  I close the email without reading further. I can recognise the start of a sales pitch, and I am not buying. I understand the value of counselling, I really do, but it is dangerous at a place like Barton House. Once Mr Ford starts pulling students from class and singling them out with waves in the corridor, others notice. It brands them. And I do not need more stares and whispers.

  And besides, who uses lament nowadays?

  I check the second email. It lands in the Black Ops inbox. It is from Xavier Jones. He prefers Ex, but that just makes me think everyone dated him at some point.

  Are we still good for tomorrow? Ex.

  Xavier Jones of Herald-Daily-article fame wants to know if Isaac dying will affect the delivery of his essay. I want to rage against him for being so tactless, but he does have a point. Am I good for tomorrow? And the tomorrow after that? I have not thought properly about what today means for our operation going forward.

  Isaac was the public face. He delivered the product and accepted the payment. As far as anybody knows, it started and ended with Isaac.

  This can be my clean break.

  Alternatively, I could find someone else to be the public face. Problem is, I do not really like anyone else, let alone trust them. And they would need to be as ethically dubious as Isaac.

  I delete the email. The train pulls in and the rear doors of the front carriage open right in front of me.

  INT. TRAIN CARRIAGE – AFTERNOON

  I have the computer on my lap. The world whips past. Isaac is in my ears.

  Isaac squints past the camera, at Miles, off–screen.

  ISAAC

  What’s on for the weekend?

  So like Isaac to have his eyes firmly on the weekend.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Study.

  ISAAC

  (aghast)

  Study? It’s March. What are you studying?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Can you just say your line?

  ISAAC

  I’m curious, what is there to study one month into the school year?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Isaac.

  ISAAC

  What? I’m waiting for you to say, ‘Action!’

  MILES (O.S.)

  When I say that, Harley just -

  ISAAC

  He won’t.

  Harley and Ryan are there too, off-screen.

  MILES (O.S.)

  (sighs)

  Action.

  HARLEY (O.S.)

  Not getting any!

  MILES (O.S.)

  (to Harley)

  That is it. Out.

  HARLEY (O.S.)

  (to Miles)

  But I -

  MILES (O.S.)

  (to Harley)

  Out.

  Within his 16:9 frame, Isaac is delighted. He watches what the camera does not capture: me struggling to pull Harley off his seat and drag him to the door.

  On the way past, one of us nudges the tripod. The scene within the frame tilts.

  HARLEY (O.S.)

  (to Isaac)

  Fare ye well!

  MILES (O.S.)

  (to Harley)

  Thee. Fare thee well.

  ISAAC

  (to Harley)

  I miss thee already.

  The door shuts.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Idiot.

  ISAAC

  Don’t be harsh . . . He’s smarter than you give him credit for.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Right.

  ISAAC

  (tilting his head)

  Let’s be artsy and film it at this angle.

  Miles tampers with the tripod.

  Isaac blurs as the frame rocks. When it settles, the angle is even more severe. The autofocus kicks in and Isaac cocks an eyebrow.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Bugger.

  ISAAC

  You’re not very good at this, are you?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Shut up.

  ISAAC

  You don’t seem to be enjoying it.

  MILES (O.S.)

  Let me just -

  The clip ends.

  I clear my throat and snap the computer shut. Almost at Ashfield anyway.

  BEGIN FLASHBACK:

  INT. ENGLISH CLASSROOM – MORNING

  The young filmmakers programme is not about enjoyment. When he pitches it, Mr Mochan says it is about autonomy, creativity and teamwork. On the other side of his mid-career crisis, Mr Mochan wants to do more than assign and assess essays students have learnt by rote – he wants to inspire. He wants us to think outside the box.

  For extracurricular credit, the top Year Ten English class is invited to make a short film over the course of three terms, in addition to the syllabus. Like most Barton House invitations, it does not feel like we have a choice. As far as mandatory additional assignments go, it could be worse. This one comes with a film festival, an awards ceremony, an opportunity for Miles Cooper to triumph.

  Mr Mochan wants us in groups of four – quite a task for a class of twenty-five, but his specialty is words, not numbers. While others panic to make their alliances, I stay put. There needs to be a group of five, and I want to make an informed decision. When there are six groups of four, and me, looking back at him, Mr Mochan catches up. He suggests I join one, but by then, I have decided to work alone.

  I will do it all if I join a group, and what is the use in sharing glory?

  Mr Mochan is hesitant, but it does not feel like he has a choice.

  INT. ENGLISH CLASSROOM – AFTERNOON

  Ryan lies across two desks. Isaac looks over his lines for the first time. Harley is here for moral support. I adjust the tripod.

  ‘I think you should do one take with a traffic cone on your head,’ Harley says. ‘Just legit don’t acknowledge it at all.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Isaac says.

  He is not so much focussed on bringing my directorial vision to life as he is on creating the greatest blooper reel.

  INT. CHAPEL – NIGHT

  I stand at the podium, clutching my fourth statuette of the night. Another Miles Cooper triumph.

  Humility always plays well. I thank Isaac, Ryan and Harley, without whose help the film would not have been possible. I dedicate it to them.

  END FLASHBACK.

  INT. MILES’S BEDROOM – AFTERNOON

  ‘Is that you, Miles?’ Dad is home early from work. His are slow, deliberate footsteps down the hall.

  I zip the pouch and push it against the back of my cupboard. I obscure it with a stack of folded T-shirts and Dad appears in the doorway.

  ‘Hey, bud,’ he says.

  ‘Hi.’

  He lifts his mouth so his moustache grazes his bottom lip. ‘How was your afternoon?’

  ‘No one died, so it was a big improvement on my morning.’

  Dad raps his knuckles on the doorframe. ‘Ah.’ He seems a little deflated, like he expected his question to launch a heart-to-heart.

  I hesitate. ‘Thanks for asking, though.’

  He perks up a bit. ‘Well, if you need to talk.’

  ‘I have your address.’

  It takes him a moment. ‘Down the hall.’ He even points.

  I nod. ‘Yes, Dad.’

  He asks if I am hungry. Mum is making breakfast for dinner. I realise I missed lunch.

  ‘Sounds good.’

  EXT. BARTON HOUSE GATES – MORNING

  There is an art to being invisible.

  Mrs Evans will stand by reception, checking for uniform violations.

  I linger just inside the gates, before the stairs up into the building, waiting for an interpretation of the school uniform so abhorrent that she will not see anything else.

  A wall of juniors with ties askew and untucked shirts cross the Barton House threshold. Their long socks are gathered at their ankles and their shorts are streaked with mud. They have been playing rugby in the park.

  I let them climb the stairs. I cannot be right behind them or Mrs Evans will see me
too. The space between us equals time, time for Mrs Evans to spot them, call them over, chastise them, insist they tidy themselves.

  Head down, I start up the stairs.

  INT. MR FORD’S OFFICE – MORNING

  I am certain school policy dictates that Mr Ford is unavoidable in situations like mine, so I get my visit over with before first period. I anticipate he will ask me how I am feeling, and he does.

  I tell him, ‘I have felt like this before.’ I pause, for effect. ‘It is not grief, no, I have never lost anyone close to me before, but I have felt this, if that makes sense?’ I feign doubt in myself, so the speech seems less rehearsed. He nods at me like his feedback will have any impact on what is coming next.

  ‘It was my final exam for Year Nine English. I thought I was so clever. I had an essay I learnt by heart, three perfect paragraphs I could rework to fit any question. I opened the exam booklet, and those three perfect paragraphs did not fit that question. I glanced around the hall, and everyone else was writing. I was paralysed by fear. But I had to try. First, I stalled. I reworded the question as a statement, hoping that once I was done, there would be another sentence to back it up. And there was. The words started to flow. The more I wrote, the easier it became, and before long, I had plucked an essay out of nowhere.’ I flash a smile. ‘It worked out in the end.’

  I shift in my seat. ‘This is the same, I guess. I prepared for a world with Isaac in it. He was a perfect paragraph in the essay of my life.’ I regret it as soon as I say it. It feels too corny, but it hits the right note with Mr Ford. I continue, ‘It is a shock, and I cannot say for certain if the new essay will be better or worse. It will be different, but I have to answer the question I have been given. I have to try.’

  Mr Ford nods sagely. ‘You know, what’s always struck me about you is your maturity,’ he says. ‘Learning from life’s challenges, that’s maturity.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’

  I have never prepared poorly for an exam in my life.

  INT. CORRIDOR – MORNING

  At recess, I try the door to the meeting room I sat in yesterday. It is locked.

  ‘Bugger,’ I mutter.

  INT. LIBRARY STUDY ROOM – MORNING

  The door clicks shut behind me. Jamie looks up from the newspaper.

  ‘Heya,’ he says.

  ‘Hello.’

  I would rather a room to myself, but the library is especially busy today, so I have to make do with sharing. Jamie Cummins and I started at Barton House the same time, I remember sitting next to him at Year Seven orientation. They must have orientated him one way, and me another, because our paths have hardly intersected since.

  I walk to the end of the room, which sounds farther than the two metres it actually is. I set my computer down on the table and pull back the top. The screen blinks to life. The folder of film footage is open, ready for my next selection. Beyond the computer, Jamie watches me with wide green eyes.

  ‘How are you?’ His voice drips with fascination.

  ‘I am good.’

  Jamie does not turn away. I think he expected a bleaker answer. I plug one earphone in, and raise the other. It is just shy of my ear when he says, ‘Ryan isn’t good. He seems pretty beat, and no one’s seen Harley. He didn’t stay at the boarding house last night. Guys are saying he went on a bender.’

  Ah, Harley’s world-famous benders. He drinks for one day, but disappears for two because the myth maketh the man.

  I insert the second earphone and exit the conversation. I select a file. The video player struggles to load and then Isaac’s laughter explodes from my computer’s speakers.

  Isaac scratches his nostril with his thumb.

  ISAAC

  So what exactly is my motivation in this sce-?

  I pause the clip too late. Jamie has recognised Isaac’s voice. I did not plug the earphones into the computer. Stupid. Stupid.

  Jamie chews on the inside of one cheek. ‘What are you watching?’ he asks.

  INT. CORRIDOR – AFTERNOON

  I try the meeting room again at lunch. Still locked.

  INT. ANOTHER CORRIDOR – AFTERNOON

  I press my head against the glass door of the darkened room.

  The computer lab is a relic of the recent past before the one-to-one laptop initiative. The space has been abandoned long enough to be forgotten, but not long enough to be refurbished into someplace useful.

  It is perfect.

  Mr Tan is mediating a crisis between two Year Eights. I interject to ask him to open the door. Remaining absorbed by the crisis, he works his key off the ring and hands it to me. I walk to the door, unlock it, and when I turn back, he is gone. The crisis has led him further down the corridor.

  ‘Fair enough.’ I pocket the key.

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – AFTERNOON

  Computers line all four walls. I gravitate towards the one reserved for teachers. It is hooked up to the projector. When I get it all working, Isaac is no longer contained to a tiny computer screen, but projected one metre tall. I drag a chair into the centre of the room and sit in the dark. It is like my own private cinema.

  The wall glows, the projected colours bounce and Isaac washes over me. He consults the script in his lap, and the red of his hair tints the sleeve of my shirt. He looks up, our gazes meet.

  Isaac blinks. He is watching Miles, off-screen.

  ISAAC

  How long will it take you to edit this?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Ages.

  ISAAC

  Why?

  MILES (O.S.)

  I have to cut out stuff like this.

  ISAAC

  Was that a hint?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Maybe.

  ISAAC

  Do I talk too much?

  MILES (O.S.)

  Definitely.

  I cannot disagree more. I could listen to him forever. I am disappointed when Isaac actually starts reciting his lines.

  Last year, I had to edit out all the filler between takes. Now, the filler is all I want.

  INT. MILES’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

  When I tell Mum I do not have any homework, she insists I not retreat to my room after dinner. Whatever I will do in there, I can do on the lounge, she says, betraying a severe lack of understanding of how teenage boys like to spend their free time. It is obvious she is trying to be supportive. I want to assure her that I am fine. I have Isaac’s footage and I do not need supporting.

  But I would prefer to keep the footage secret, so I sit on the lounge. She takes the armchair. We keep two books under the coffee table for quiet moments. When one is finished, it is replaced. Mum hands me the paperback. I turn to the dog-eared page. She handles the hardcover on molecular biology with more care.

  ‘Do you understand any of that?’ I ask.

  She uses a male underwear model cut out of a catalogue as a bookmark. ‘Dion will help me through.’ She calls him Dion. I do not know how Dad feels about that.

  I read the first line of the page twice. So much has happened since I last put the book down, it all feels foreign to me. I try the line a third time and my phone’s notification light blinks.

  I unlock the screen, revealing a new Black Ops email from Michael Wilson. It is brief:

  Drama wasn’t the same without you, man.

  I have not taken Drama since it was compulsory in Year Eight.

  Oh, you.

  Michael is talking to Isaac. That makes sense. As far as any client knows, Isaac answered the emails.

  Drama wasn’t the same without you, man.

  My eyes water before I realise it has upset me.

  INT. CORRIDOR – MORNING

  The Year Twelves line both sides of the corridor. A kid half their height lingers just out of their reach, hesitant. They chant, ‘Run it! Run it!’

  Barton House has what Mrs Evans calls a negative corridor culture – in the five minutes between periods, narrow arteries struggle to pump hundreds of students from one class to
the next, and that brings out the worst in human nature. Leave a senior class waiting long enough outside their room and they will form a gauntlet. They usually target younger students, but I am built like a sheet of cardboard.

  I step into the gauntlet with a vice-like grip on my books.

  There are two shoves, then a teacher’s, ‘Oi!’ cuts through the air and the Year Twelves snap back against the wall. I can now see past them, and Michael Wilson walking towards me.

  I call his name.

  His brow creases. ‘Hi?’

  Ah. He does not know he emailed me. I try to recover. ‘You take Modern History, right?’

  Michael shakes his head.

  I force a short laugh. ‘Why did I think you did?’

  He shrugs and says he is running late.

  ‘Yeah, no, right, bye.’ He passes and I berate myself. Stupid. Stupid.

  INT. COMPUTER LAB – AFTERNOON

  I have Isaac’s profile projected on the wall and the cordless mouse on my thigh.

  He lives in a box in the top corner, reflected in his bathroom mirror. His orange hair is coiffed, his jawline is pronounced and he has rolled up his sleeves to accentuate his biceps. He took the photo himself. I would be mortified if I had left that digital footprint, but he does not seem bothered.

  I scroll down and try to absorb the posts. Everybody is competing for likes.

  I close the browser and unwrap my sandwich.

  INT. MILES’S KITCHEN – MORNING

  Mum overdoes breakfast. Bacon, eggs, mushrooms, sliced avocado and a stack of pancakes on the side. It is the sort of decadence that precedes French revolutions, not Thursdays. Any hope of ducking out with a piece of toast in my mouth and a wave is dashed.

  ‘You have time,’ Mum says, pre-empting my excuse. ‘Your father can drop you at the station.’

  Dad’s face says they have not discussed this. Mum pulls up a chair beside him, and waits for me to join them. I peel off my backpack and take the free seat.