Grace

by Morris Gleitzman

  Asking questions and thinking about the answers.

  After a while I had another one.

  ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘Do you think I should hand in my project?’

  Dad only thought about that for a heartbeat.

  ‘Up to you,’ he said.

  That was yet another thing I liked about Dad. When he gave you a short answer, he always meant what he said. You didn’t have to look for hidden meanings. ‘Up to you’ meant ‘up to you,’ not ‘I think you’re crazy if you do because you’ll get into trouble and so will our family but I don’t want to look like a bossy-boots so I’m pretending I’m giving you the choice.’

  Dad gently touched my arm.

  ‘What am I always going on about?’ he said.

  I knew the answer to that question.

  ‘Being true to myself,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said.

  ‘I am going to hand it in,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ said another soft voice in the darkness.

  Mum was home. She lay next to us on the grass, and cuddled in close.

  ‘I have a feeling,’ said Mum, ‘that tomorrow in class Miss Parry will like your project more than Mr Gosper did.’

  I gave Mum a hug.

  ‘How was church?’ said Dad.

  Mum generally didn’t rush into answers either. Except to questions like ‘Is your hair on fire?’

  ‘I think we’re OK,’ she said after a bit.

  There was another pause.

  In the moonlight I saw that Dad was giving Mum a look.

  ‘Except we’re not really, are we?’ he said.

  Mum gave him a look back.

  ‘We’re OK if we want to be,’ she said quietly.

  My mind was dashing around faster than a locust that had lost the rest of its plague. I was trying to work out what Mum and Dad were talking about.

  There was a long pause. I tried to see their faces in the dark. I wasn’t sure if their voices were being tense or not.

  ‘What I want,’ said Dad to Mum, ‘is for us to spend some time talking about what we should be talking about.’

  ‘Not here,’ said Mum.

  Her voice was suddenly very tense.

  ‘What not here?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mum. ‘Come on, time for bed.’

  ‘Dad?’ I said.

  ‘Mum’s right,’ said Dad. ‘It’s late. School day tomorrow. You want to be fresh for your Nobel Prize.’

  They chased me into the house, threatening to tickle me. I always enjoyed that, but tonight, in a corner of my mind, something didn’t feel right.

  I’d asked a question.

  They hadn’t answered it.

  That had never happened in our family before.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning I did another sin, but only because our school minibus crashed into a truck.

  We were speeding through the outside world on our way to school, whizzing along Steve Waugh Boulevard near the Breezy Whale carwash.

  Our trip each morning was a bit complicated because the minibus had to pick up kids from about three suburbs. Mr Gosper, who usually drove the bus, liked to do the trip as quickly as possible so we didn’t have to spend too much time in the outside world.

  I was in the back seat with Delilah and her brother Liam. We were showing each other our projects.

  ‘You are so getting a D minus for that, Grace,’ said Delilah, shaking her head at my folder.

  ‘My mum and dad think it’s good,’ I said.

  ‘That’s because they’re in it,’ said Liam.

  ‘You can’t write a bible about your family,’ said Delilah. ‘That is so not biblical.’

  ‘The Bible’s got a lot of families in it,’ I said.

  My voice must have been quite loud because Mr Gosper turned round in the driver’s seat and gave me a look. He must have realised we were talking about my project. I tried to slide the folder back into my school bag.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Delilah. ‘You are so going to be judged.’

  Suddenly there was a loud screech and the sound of a plastic bumper bar being rent asunder and talk about whiplash, we were all nearly afflicted with snapped necks. Our homework was cast off our knees onto the floor. Some of the kids screamed.

  I peered out the window, trying to see what had happened.

  Delilah grabbed me.

  ‘Is this it?’ she gasped, her eyes huge.

  I shook my head.

  Delilah always thought the world was ending. The number of times I had to remind her that she’d know when it was the end by the apocalyptic fire everywhere and the smoke from all the burning fat in McDonald’s.

  I gave Delilah’s arm a comforting squeeze like I always did.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said gently. ‘God doesn’t want to gather us to him just yet.’

  I unclicked my seatbelt and stood up and peered out the front window and saw what had happened.

  We’d crashed into the back of a tow truck at the traffic lights. Luckily God had helped Mr Gosper get his foot on the brake, so there wasn’t too much damage, which was a blessing.

  ‘Mr Gosper,’ I said. ‘Are you alright?’

  Mr Gosper was glaring through the windscreen at the tow truck like it was the tow truck’s fault. I didn’t think it could be because the tow truck was at the traffic lights first, but I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Everybody stay in your seats,’ said Mr Gosper.

  He got out of the minibus and started examining our broken bumper bar.

  I saw that the accident had afflicted Mr Gosper’s hair. His long grey wisp had flopped off his bald patch and was hanging down over one ear. Apart from that he didn’t seem to be hurt, which was a relief.

  I couldn’t see if the other driver had been as lucky. Nobody was getting out of the tow truck. The big hook on the back was still swinging from the crash. What if the other driver was injured?

  Mr Gosper didn’t seem to be checking.

  I felt awful. I imagined someone crashing into Dad. Or Mum when she was in the car with Mark and Luke. OK, Mum couldn’t drive, but I still imagined it and I was filled with compassion.

  That’s why I did it.

  I squeezed past the kids sitting in front of me, undid the child lock on the sliding door of the minibus and got out.

  ‘Grace,’ I heard Delilah say. ‘Come back. You mustn’t.’

  She was right. It was the outside world. The people in it were unsaved sinners. But they were still people.

  I went over to the tow truck. I wished Dad was with me. He knew first aid and was very good at calming jangled nerves when he wasn’t starting arguments.

  Then I noticed what was written in big letters on the side of the truck.

  DENNY’S SAVAGE.

  For a sec I thought it was a warning about the driver. But I looked again and what it actually said was DENNY’S SALVAGE.

  I could hear voices coming from the cab of the truck.

  ‘Flaming thing’s jammed,’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘Hurry up, Dad,’ said a kid’s voice. ‘If the cops see us, we’ll be in trouble.’

  The driver’s window was open. I peered in.

  Two people in the driver’s seat were sharing the same seatbelt. One was a man in overalls with chin stubble and a pony tail. Perched on the man’s knees, with his hands on the steering wheel like he’d been doing the driving, was a boy about my age.

  The man was trying to undo the seatbelt.

  ‘I should have fixed this mongrel when it first started playing up,’ he grumbled.

  The boy leaned forward and rummaged around under the dash.

  ‘There’s a screwdriver here, Dad,’ he said.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I said to them.

  They both looked at me, startled.

  I was a bit startled myself when I saw that the boy’s spiky hair had the words Go Saints shaved into it. Then I realised what that meant. Dad had explained once how for a lot of people,
footy was their religion.

  The tow-truck driver grabbed the screwdriver from his son and did something to the seatbelt buckle, which clicked open.

  I took a step back as the tow-truck driver opened the door, lifted his son out and climbed out himself.

  ‘We’re right, thanks,’ he said gruffly. ‘But nice of you to ask.’

  He peered towards the back of the truck and saw that one of his rear lights was sorely afflicted and in fragments on the road.

  ‘Aw, Jeez,’ he muttered.

  ‘We’re really sorry we crashed into you,’ I said. ‘In our church we’re all saved, so we’re a bit careless on the road sometimes. It’s because we know God’s protecting us.’

  I hoped I’d explained it properly. It was how Dad had explained it to me one time after he’d had an argument with Mr Gosper, who reckoned speed limits were only for sinners.

  The tow-truck driver stared at me, then at the minibus, then at Mr Gosper, who was rummaging around inside the glove box.

  ‘That clown shouldn’t be driving kiddies,’ the tow-truck driver muttered.

  ‘Mr Gosper has to,’ I explained. ‘God told him to.’

  ‘Is that right?’ snorted the tow-truck driver. ‘And did God tell him to go around crashing into people?’

  I wasn’t certain, but it didn’t seem likely.

  The tow-truck driver went to have a closer look at the broken light. I started to follow him, but his son grabbed my arm. I went rigid with shock. I’d never been touched by an outsider before. I pulled my arm away, then saw that the boy was offering me something.

  It was a bar of chocolate. Some of it had already been eaten. The wrapper was crumpled and the chocolate looked a bit fluffy.

  ‘You can have this,’ muttered the boy. ‘If you don’t tell the police.’

  I stared at him. I wasn’t sure what he meant.

  ‘About me steering the truck,’ said the boy. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t really steering. My dad had his hands on the wheel too. And he was doing the pedals. But you mustn’t say anything cause if he gets busted and loses his licence, he won’t be able to do his salvage business.’

  I stared at the chocolate, not sure what to say. In our church we weren’t allowed to eat things outsiders had touched, not without cooking it first. That’s why we had so much soup and toast.

  The boy was looking at me pleadingly.

  ‘I didn’t ask to steer,’ he said. ‘But my dad wants me to learn things so I’ll get on in life.’

  The boy had tough hair, but his eyes were gentle and anxious.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m not allowed to have the chocolate, but I won’t tell anyone what you did. Anyway, Mr Gosper won’t call the police. Our church doesn’t like to get involved with outsiders.’

  The boy looked relieved and grateful.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  We looked at each other. I could see he was wondering something.

  ‘Are you Muslim?’ he said.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Christian,’ I said. ‘A special type.’

  The boy nodded as he thought about this.

  ‘Grace,’ yelled Mr Gosper. ‘Get back in the bus.’

  I turned. Mr Gosper was coming towards us. He looked furious. Wrath and anger were totally upon him. Poor bloke. Dad reckoned Mr Gosper had stomach ulcers but wouldn’t admit it in case people thought Satan had given them to him.

  ‘She wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ said the boy.

  ‘Don’t interfere in things you know nothing about,’ snapped Mr Gosper.

  ‘Hey,’ said the tow-truck driver angrily to Mr Gosper. ‘Take it easy.’

  Things were turning ugly. I tried to take a leaf from Mum’s book and do what I could to smooth things over.

  ‘Outsiders don’t know our rules,’ I reminded Mr Gosper. ‘We can’t just crash into people and expect them to know our rules.’

  Mr Gosper glared at me. He thrust a piece of paper into the tow-truck driver’s hands and pushed me towards the bus.

  I wasn’t surprised Mr Gosper was angry for I knew what I had done.

  I’d touched an outsider. We’d been told millions of times never to do that. You could catch demons. Sin could flow into you like molten burning fat. You could end up defiled.

  The other kids were all staring at me as I climbed into the minibus. In the back seat, Liam and Delilah made room for me. A lot of room. As I sat down they made sure they didn’t touch any part of me.

  I understood why.

  ‘You are so defiled,’ said Delilah.

  ‘You’re gunna get crucified when Mr Reece hears about this,’ said Liam.

  I didn’t feel defiled. Dad and me chatted with our neighbours all the time. Dad reckoned catching sin and demons from unsaved people was nonsense and there wasn’t any scientific evidence for it.

  I tried to discuss with Delilah and Liam what had just happened.

  ‘Do you think,’ I said, ‘if God had wanted to, he could have stopped us crashing into those outsiders?’

  Delilah snorted.

  ‘Duh,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So why didn’t he?’ I said.

  ‘That is so obvious,’ said Delilah. ‘He’s punishing you for your evil school project.’

  ‘Which is totally unfair on the rest of us,’ said Liam. ‘And the school bus.’

  ‘What if,’ I said, ‘this was God’s way of giving us the chance to make friends with outsiders?’

  Delilah and Liam stared at me, horrified. I’d been trying to help Delilah get better at discussions, but it wasn’t easy because she got shocked so easily.

  ‘You are so going to be smitten by wrath,’ she said.

  Mr Gosper revved the minibus and steered around the tow truck and headed towards school.

  I looked out the window. The boy was watching us drive away. He gave a little wave. I waved back. He seemed like a nice person. It made me sad to think that most of the people in my church would think he was an ungodly sinner.

  I pushed the thought out of my mind.

  I knew Delilah and Liam were probably right about Mr Reece the principal. He wouldn’t be happy when he heard what I’d done.

  The other kids in the bus knew it too. They were peeking over their shoulders and I could see some of them praying for me, which was very kind.

  But sometimes even nineteen kids praying on a bus isn’t enough. Not when it turns out you’re in the biggest trouble of your life.

  Chapter 5

  Wrath is like anger, only worse.

  It makes people’s eyes go furious, and their brows darken, and whole nations die of it sometimes. There’s a lot of it in the Bible, and there was quite a bit at school that day.

  When we arrived we went straight into assembly.

  Mr Reece was on the stage, waiting for us to get settled. He was staring at the floor with grimness upon him. I hoped there wasn’t anything serious afflicting his family, specially his little grandson who’d been born with a nasty cough. With a bit of luck Mr Reece was just frowning because he was the school principal and he’d heard that one of his pupils had spoken to unsaved people in a tow truck.

  ‘Let us pray,’ said Mr Reece.

  After all the usual prayers, Mr Reece opened his eyes and looked straight at me.

  ‘O Lord,’ he said, ‘we shamefully acknowledge a disobedient and disrespectful child among us.’

  He beckoned for me to come out the front.

  As I stood up, none of the other kids looked. It was a school rule. Don’t stare at a sinner. Put your hands in your lap and lower your eyes and pray that the bad person finds the path of goodness.

  I could see Delilah’s lips moving, but I couldn’t tell if she was praying for me or whispering to the person next to her about how defiled I was.

  Trembling, my calm nerves forsaking me, I walked to the front of the hall and up onto the stage. I’d never had this experience before. Usually Mr Reece just called me into his office for a talk abou
t obedience and how I didn’t have much and how that made God very cross. Which wasn’t so bad because inside I usually didn’t agree.

  Today, though, what was happening felt very different.

  Worry was upon me.

  Mr Reece made me stand next to him on the stage. He put his hand on my head.

  ‘O Lord our Judge and Master,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘We ask You to rid this child of her disobedience. We beg You to teach her respect for You and for this church. We beseech You to cleanse her disrespectful and sullied heart.’

  Now bulk worry was upon me.

  Dad’s first rule was never lie to God. Lying, Dad always said, should never be part of a friendship.

  What Mr Reece had just said to God wasn’t true. I didn’t have a disrespectful heart. I respected God and God knew that. Plus, I wasn’t exactly sure what sullied meant, but I was pretty sure I didn’t have that either. I needed to warn Mr Reece that he was telling untruths to the Lord.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said to Mr Reece. ‘But that isn’t quite right.’

  Mr Reece opened his eyes and stared down at me. His nose was turning pink with wrath, which wasn’t a good sign. Plus he looked a bit stunned.

  People didn’t often interrupt prayers in assembly.

  Well, never actually.

  Other people in the hall were looking stunned too. Miss Parry my class teacher. All the other teachers. The students. Everyone actually.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got a disrespectful and sullied heart,’ I said to Mr Reece. ‘I don’t feel like I have.’

  Mr Reece looked like he was choking on something. I hoped he hadn’t had a bacon sandwich just before assembly.

  I was feeling a bit dizzy myself. But I made myself think of Dad and his calming voice and how brave he was in church whenever the others shouted at him for asking questions.

  ‘I’m sorry to muck up your prayers,’ I said to Mr Reece. ‘But my dad reckons the truth is the most important thing.’

  Mr Reece didn’t speak for a few more moments, but I was relieved to see he was breathing again.

  Suddenly he grabbed the Bible from the lecturn.

  ‘This is the only truth,’ he said. ‘God’s word. The word of the only Father who matters. The word you insist on questioning with your pride and disobedience.’