I play the edit.
ISAAC
Aw. You know I love – you, Miles. – your – the best. – the best.
Mrs Roberts has her medium, and I have mine. I replay it.
ISAAC
Aw. You know I love – you, Miles.
I know it is not really him. I know footage is made of samples of the light bouncing off him, assembled together to give the illusion of movement, with recorded audio running underneath. I know I have reordered those samples of light and audio recordings. But it feels so real.
ISAAC
(continuing)
– your – the best. – the best.
‘I love you too, Isaac,’ I say.
Like Mrs Roberts, I have a choice. I can live in a world where Isaac does not like me, or I can live in one where he does. I choose the latter.
I export the new video.
I highlight all the other files in the raw footage folder, right-click, Delete.
The last of the files disappears, and my chest feels lighter.
INT. CORRIDOR – MORNING
‘Oi!’ Harley intercepts me on the way to home room. ‘Have you seen Thommo?’ he asks. I wonder if he knows bequeathing nicknames is not mandatory.
Ryan was not in Modern History this morning.
I intend to step around Harley but he moves back into my way. He asks about my Sunday evening and I am going to be late if he keeps this up.
I cannot be friends with Scott Harley.
INT. ANCIENT HISTORY CLASSROOM – MORNING
‘Omar.’ Mr Higgins continues to annotate a response he is marking. ‘I don’t understand how you can talk all the way through my classes and still get the marks you do.’
Omar peers at me from five seats over. ‘It’s a gift, sir,’ he says.
‘Well, gift us with your silence.’
‘Yeah, shut up, Omar.’
The class sniggers.
Sanjay nudges me. ‘Harley wants you,’ he whispers.
Our desks snake around the room to form a U, so mine faces the corridor. I look up.
Harley is standing out there. He waves at me.
I mime, ‘No.’
‘Come on,’ he mouths back.
I shake my head.
He lets himself in, gets frustrated by the layout of the room, and walks around the world to get in front of my desk. Mr Higgins objects to his intrusion but Harley ignores him. He asks where Ryan lives. I write down the address. Harley hops over the opposite end of the U on the way out.
‘Buffoon,’ Mr Higgins mutters.
He orders us all to get back to our work.
I have no idea what that was about, but Sanjay does. He fills in Jamie. I eavesdrop. ‘Yeah, Rodgers texted me a couple of minutes ago,’ Sanjay says. ‘In their English class, Hughes flat out told Ms Thomson he’s gay.’
‘Who? Harley?’ Jamie asks.
‘Nah, Ryan.’
‘Ah. That’s weak.’
‘Tell me about it. Fancy some random telling your mum you’re gay.’
‘I’m not gay.’
‘I know. I was just saying.’
I interrupt their shtick for clarification. ‘Did you say Ryan is gay?’ I ask.
Sanjay nods. ‘All the boarders know,’ he adds.
I sit back. ‘Huh.’
Harley knows. He was in that English classroom. He should still be in that English classroom, but he charged in here to get Ryan’s address. He is going home to warn Ryan.
That is almost admirable.
No. I cannot be friends with Scott Harley.
INT. MILES’S KITCHEN – NIGHT
Mum pecks the top of my head on her way around the dining table. ‘I don’t know how you work like this.’
I have spread my academic life out on the table. Books are open, stacked by relevance, and papers are scattered but ordered. Mostly. I have chopped some carrots, they are under . . . something.
‘I have a system,’ I say, reaching for the middle book in a stack.
Mum fills herself a glass of water and asks how school is going.
‘All right.’
She keeps watching, waiting for my answer to expand to encompass Isaac.
‘Better.’
Mum takes a sip. ‘Do you miss him?’ she asks.
I nod.
‘How are the boys?’
Ryan is gay and Harley is admirable.
‘All right,’ I say.
Mum accepts the answer, but I want to elaborate.
‘I think I want to become Harley’s friend.’
Mum stifles a laugh. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
‘Harley is a Neanderthal in a private school uniform.’
‘You were always hard on him.’
‘He is more flammable than methylated spirits. He is a pharmacy with a pulse. His grammar is appalling.’
Mum nods. ‘Yes. Valid reasons for not liking someone, I’ll grant you that. What is it that is endearing him to you, then?’
I think on it. ‘He is . . . nice. Or at least, I have happened to be at the right place at the right time to discover that he is occasionally not the single worst person in the world,’ I say.
Mum shrugs. ‘People change. People surprise us. Your father used to be a triathlete.’
‘Love you too,’ Dad calls from the lounge.
‘But look at you,’ Mum says, coming back over, ‘putting aside old differences and making new friends.’ She pecks the top of my head again. ‘Your father and I are proud of you, you know that?’
‘Because I might befriend a Neanderthal?’
‘Because of all of you,’ she says. She gestures at the dining table I have commandeered. ‘We’re very chuffed.’
‘Well, you would want to be. I am your only one.’
‘That’s not true,’ she says, circling the desk on the way to sit with Dad. ‘We have a storage space in Alexandria where we keep all the children who have disappointed us.’
INT. MILES’S BEDROOM – NIGHT
I message Ryan at half-past nine.
I had workshopped other starting texts, and considered building up to the question, but I figured he would appreciate directness.
He replies a minute later.
All right, perhaps he does not appreciate directness.
INT. ANCIENT HISTORY CLASSROOM – MORNING
I finish my assigned work early. Mr Higgins is busy on the other end of the U, walking a group through the task. I unzip my pencil case. My phone is inside. The notification light flickers. I angle the screen towards me and swipe to unlock it.
I have one new notification from the Herald Daily app. An article you are watching has been updated.
I downloaded the app for the sole purpose of monitoring Isaac’s article.
I follow the prompts and the story loads. My eyes catch a change instantly. Isaac no longer jumped or fell. He only fell. I scan through the text, searching for an unfamiliar phrase or some new quote that contextualises the change. Nothing. I get to the bottom and the video is gone, replaced by us.
Isaac and me. We are in the back of . . .
BEGIN FLASHBACK:
INT. FRENCH CLASSROOM – MORNING
I am allocated a seat in the back of home room. Mme McKenzie hovers around, making small talk, peppering sentences with mes enfants and c’est bon, I am assuming, to bewilder the students who have never been exposed to a second language. I am not bewildered. Mum and I have been working through beginner French lessons online. She is glad I have been sorted into Mme McKenzie’s home room class. It will be useful if I carry the language through to my later years.
I turn the page and continue reading my History textbook.
The guy beside me leans back far enough that his chair touches the wall and balances on its hind legs.
‘Success!’ he says.
I do not react. I watch him deflate in my peripheries. He leans forwards, all four legs touch the ground.
‘What you doing?’ he asks.
&nbs
p; ‘Are.’
‘What?’
I hear Mum’s sharp voice in my ear. People do not like being corrected. ‘Reading,’ I say.
‘I can see that. We haven’t had a class yet.’
‘So?’
My phone vibrates loudly on the desk we share. I panic and snatch it up.
‘Busted.’
Mme McKenzie is too busy exchanging basic French pleasantries with another kid whose mum discovered beginner French lessons online.
I check the message. Mum wants a photo of me in class. As subtly as I can manage, I aim the front-facing camera at myself and –
‘Are you taking a selfie?’ he asks.
‘No.’
I am. It is a new phone and I do not really know how to use it. The camera app is still open. I turn the screen away to hide the evidence.
‘You are.’ He is smirking. ‘Who’s it for? Your girlfriend?’
‘I do not have a girlfriend. I am too young.’
‘I have a girlfriend.’
I remind myself to make one up the next time someone asks.
‘Who’s it for then?’ he asks.
I have already torpedoed this first impression, so I say, ‘Mum.’
‘Cool.’
I do not expect that. ‘Really?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘What she want a selfie for?’
I shrug. The less I say, the better for my social standing.
‘Here.’ He snatches my phone, unlocks it with a swipe and angles the front-facing camera at us both.
‘What are you –?’
‘Doing you a favour. You want to look popular.’ He cleans the front of his teeth with his tongue and grins. ‘Smile.’
‘What?’
The camera-shutter sound effect is loud enough to attract Mme McKenzie’s attention. Her conversation ends abruptly.
‘Phone away, Isaac,’ she says. ‘You could learn a thing or two from Miles sitting next to you. Read something.’
I suppress a smile as he slides the phone back to me.
‘Isaac?’ I ask.
He nods.
‘Miles.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘She told me.’
‘Right.’
‘Flick it to my mum, will you?’ Isaac asks. ‘Prove I’m making new friends.’
I hesitate. ‘I do not have her number.’
‘You don’t? Funny, I have your mum’s. Boom.’
I blink. He is waiting for a reaction.
‘Right. Humour. We’ll work on that,’ he says. ‘Just send the pic to me and I’ll forward it. My digits are . . .’
END FLASHBACK.
INT. ANCIENT HISTORY CLASSROOM – MORNING
I stare at the photograph. It is by no means perfect. Isaac is smiling, and I am frozen mid-speech. But he is smiling. With me.
It says, ‘We were best friends.’
Isaac and I have our photo. It is everything that was good about us. We were best friends.
And it is in the article too. But how?
The caption reads, Isaac Roberts and Miles Cooper. [Image: Supplied]
Who would have supplied it? I only told Harley.
I only told Harley.
EXT. COURTYARD – MORNING
Harley is up on the tabletop, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands limp. He sees me and becomes more rigid. Ryan is beside him. The three of us used to sit on the picnic table with Isaac. It feels like an eternity ago.
Now, our diverging paths are intersecting where they started.
It feels like an ending.
I begin to cross the courtyard and fall out of myself. I picture the series finale. The shot tracks behind me. It is a full shot, one uninterrupted take. Anticipation builds, the music swells, and –
I snap back into myself.
I stop in front of them and announce, ‘I would like some ground rules.’
‘I’m well, thanks. How are you?’ Harley asks.
‘One. I am not the butt of anybody’s jokes. Two. I am not going to drink until it is legal for me to do so, and even then, there is no obligation. Three. I am not going to do your homework for you.’
Harley shrugs. ‘Fine by me.’
‘Ditto,’ says Ryan.
‘Oh.’ I had anticipated some resistance and a negotiation. ‘Okay.’
I hop onto the tabletop and we sit in silence, the courtyard a chaotic mess around us. This is the ending. I take a deep breath, satisfied. I wait for a fade-out that does not come. Time just keeps passing.
‘They’re getting rid of the bench,’ Harley says. ‘Sorry, no, they’re repurposing it. Giving it to the Industrial Tech guys to sand while they renovate this area.’
‘But Isaac signed it,’ Ryan says, peering around, ‘somewhere.’
‘Miles is sitting on it.’
I lift myself up. Isaac has crudely scratched his initials into the timber. ‘Oh, I am too.’
‘Another thing we lose,’ Ryan says. ‘Great.’
I stare at Isaac’s mark. It is an imperfection, the work of a vandal, a symptom of time. The Industrial Technology students will take the picnic table to their workshop and strip the timber back. Out of it, they will make something new. It will be better, perfect, freshly varnished, but Isaac’s mark will have been erased.
‘Or . . .’ Harley looks down at the table. He assesses it through narrowed eyes. ‘I reckon the three of us could lift it,’ he says.
‘What? We just smuggle it out?’ Ryan asks.
‘When everyone’s in class. Or at night,’ Harley says. ‘Yeah, night’s better.’
Ryan considers it. ‘I’m game.’
I want to protest, call the idea out for what it is, a reckless flight of fancy, but I can see the gears churning in their minds as they bounce ideas off each other. We will need a getaway vehicle, Harley says Isaac’s sister owns a truck. We will need to enter the building after hours, Ryan can borrow his mum’s security pass and keys. I recognise the momentum of a fresh plotline.
This is wrong. Everything is resolved. Ryan is out, Harley is not complete garbage, and I have my photo. We cannot introduce a new plotline at the end of a series finale, unless . . .
I have it wrong. We have established a new dynamic, and now we are plotting a caper to steal a picnic table. This is not a finale. This is the pilot of the spin-off.
Instead of a fade to black, I see our opening titles.
TITLE OVER: THE SIDEKICKS
I speak up. ‘You do understand there are cameras everywhere, right?’ I ask.
Harley goes quiet, but Ryan is not deterred. ‘You said it yourself, they only look at the footage when something goes wrong.’
‘So?’
‘So,’ Harley fields it, ‘nothing will go wrong.’
INT. CORRIDOR – AFTERNOON
I tape the photograph to Isaac’s locker, covering more of Xavier’s picture than is really necessary.
We were best friends.
I step back and take in the whole collage. Various Isaacs stare at me, woven into different lives at different times. Isaac in a car, on the beach, at a formal – all smiles.
Photos are not lies. We might perform in them, but they are proof. They are evidence that two paths intersected and two people marked each other in some way, even if only for a moment. I wonder what he did for them, and them for him. I wonder if they changed each other. I wonder.
I look at Ryan’s photo with Isaac. I look at Harley’s. They really believe we can sneak into the school after dark and steal a picnic table. They are certain nothing will go wrong.
That is Isaac’s influence. He was fearless.
I fear.
I still fear. I wonder why. I built a small empire on black-market essays, how can I still fear? Isaac had faith that I could game the system, so much that he assumed all of the risk. He reminded me I was intelligent, and that made me more so. His faith made me the sort of person who would think to pin Michael’s essays on Ryan.
There is a smarter way to get the picnic table. Right now, there are too many variables. We are being foolish. I did not make all that money by being foolish.
I made all that money . . .
INT. MRS EVANS’S OFFICE – AFTERNOON
Mrs Evans’s office looks like always – a tidy little space with the sun shouting through the window – only today, it is a monument. The last time I was in here, Isaac died.
It is funny how the past never really goes away. It sinks into the walls and whispers at you when you pass. Sitting here, I forget the time and distance between me and that moment. I picture Ryan and Harley there with me, reacting to the news.
Mrs Evans apologises for keeping me waiting. She turns from her computer and removes her reading glasses. Her bangles clash together. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asks.
‘I came about the picnic tables in the courtyard. Harley says you are removing them?’
‘We are, yes.’
‘I was wondering if I could purchase ours.’ I researched them online. Even an expensive picnic table would not make much of a dent in my essay earnings. ‘It has sentimental value.’
Mrs Evans smiles. In as delicately a way as she can manage, she tells me no.
‘We used to sit there every day. Isaac even scratched his initials into it.’ I am willing to argue my case until she acquiesces.
Apparently, it would be unethical to accept payment from a student for a piece of school property.
‘You could use the proceeds to dedicate the new fixtures to Isaac,’ I try.
She smiles again. ‘That is a very sweet idea.’
But the answer is still no.
INT. MILES’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
We have agreed on Friday night. We will organise to spend the night at Ryan’s. Ms Thomson will think that we are going to see a late movie. We will be careful. If there is the slightest risk of being caught, we leave the picnic table and run.
I still fear.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Mum asks.
The Sidekicks Page 19
