by Debra Oswald
JT kicked his skateboard across the asphalt to me and I took off after Corey.
Corey was twenty metres ahead of me, skating past the back of the shops. There were so many garbage bins and boxes, it slowed him down enough for me to catch up. He twisted round when he heard the scraping noise of skateboard wheels behind him. His eyes were huge and shiny with adrenaline.
A second later, we heard the growl of an engine revving. Ray Stone was behind the wheel of his red car, coming after us. I didn’t want to have a stand-up fight with Ray Stone. An aggro guy like Travis might have stopped right there in the street and taken Stone on. But Corey and I both tried to avoid that kind of trouble.
‘We’d better get moving before that mad guy runs us over,’ I said.
Corey nodded and the two of us pushed forward. Stone was quite a way behind us but it wouldn’t take long for a car to catch up with two skateboards. So we needed to lose him without relying on speed. As skaters in Narragindi, we knew ways to get around town, out of the way of cars and too many people.
Corey flicked his head to the left and I immediately knew what he meant: St David’s churchyard was our best bet. We took a sharp turn to the left, down the narrow walkway beside the charity op shop, and into the yard of the big old stone church.
I felt the rush of air in my face as I gunned it round the side of the church. The air was icy, as if the walls of the church were sending out coldness. Corey was speeding along beside me.
Stone must’ve driven the long way round – very fast – because there he was, driving into the yard behind us, burning up the asphalt around the church. That guy had major anger-control problems. Now was not the best moment to explain the truth to Ray Stone. Better to keep out of his way until he calmed down a bit.
‘River!’ shouted Corey.
‘Yeah.’
There was a low sandstone wall at the back of the churchyard. Beyond the wall, the ground sloped away steeply, with seven or eight steps leading down to the riverbank. I gunned it along the flat surface of the yard to get up as much speed as possible, then hit the edge of the stone wall at top speed and used the momentum of that to jump. I was airborne, flying over the top of the steps, hand keeping hold of the skateboard under my feet. I landed hard in the dirt at the bottom of the steps, grunting with the force that went through my body. I’m not saying it was an elegant landing or a landing that would score points in a skating competition. But it got me down to the riverbank fast. A second later, Corey hit the ground beside me.
‘Always wanted to try that jump,’ he said.
‘Well, now you have, princess.’
Corey pulled a face and laughed, still winded from the landing.
Behind and above us, Ray Stone stopped his car and swung open the driver’s door. Some pretty serious language spewed out of his mouth at that point. He was not a happy guy. Corey and I didn’t stick around to hear the exact details of Ray Stone’s opinion of us. We took off down the dirt path along the riverbank.
The Draper River runs through the middle of Narragindi, flows east out of town, past where the houses end, and then into Draper Reserve, a bush area with a swimming beach on the riverbank.
It was only when we made it to the beach that I let myself relax. Corey and I collapsed onto the sand, flat on our backs, muscles aching, totally whacked. We both cracked up laughing, gulping for air.
The sand felt cold through my T-shirt. Only a few weeks ago that sand had been baking hot and we’d been swimming in the river. But already the water was icy and the sand was as cold under my back as a block of stone.
I hoisted myself up on my elbows and looked out at the little stretch of beach. The Draper was a wide river with huge gums leaning out from the banks, dropping long shreds of bark into the water. Thick ropes were tied round branches so you could swing out over the water, whooping like a crazy person. A pontoon was anchored in the deepest part of the water for kids to dive from. Of course it wasn’t like a proper beach with surf but still, you could have a lot of fun there if you were a little kid. When I was ten or eleven, I thought Narragindi was the best place to live in the entire world.
Flaked out there on the beach, I realised I had a big stupid smile on my face, like I was that happy little kid again.
‘I dunno why we’re laughing,’ I said.
‘Me neither,’ said Corey.
‘Stone will get us eventually. We’re still stuffed.’
‘Totally stuffed,’ he agreed and we cracked up laughing again.
‘Why did you take off like that?’ I asked.
Corey shrugged. But I knew why. Everyone always decided a Matthews was guilty no matter what the truth was. So Corey acted guilty even if he wasn’t.
‘I guess I’m just a ratbag skater moron,’ Corey said.
‘Guess you must be,’ I agreed.
‘Well, how come you took off with me? Now you’ll be in trouble.’
‘I must be a ratbag skater moron too,’ I concluded.
Corey flicked a lump of cold sand at me and I chucked a handful of sand back at him. We had a full-on sand fight for a few minutes until we were exhausted and laughing like maniacs again.
I remember being really happy that afternoon. Life wasn’t perfect. (There was the Ray Stone problem waiting for us, apart from anything else.) And I didn’t know then how bad things could get. But when I think back about it now, I reckon at that moment, I was happy.
Chapter Five
When my mum and I got to the Narragindi police station, Mum was still wearing the hideous uniform for her shop assistant job at Chemistzone. Mum always described the zip-up dress as ‘snot-coloured’ and she said the brown squeaky shoes were ‘baby-poo brown’. She’d finished work at six o’clock and marched me straight round to the cop shop. Corey and I were in trouble.
Mum dinged the bell on the police station counter and then the two of us sat on the wooden bench to wait. Mum had heard the whole story – some of it from the police and some of it from me. She knew that Corey would never try to steal Ray Stone’s car. She understood why Corey had run off like that. She even understood why I’d run off with him. But she was still as mad as a cut snake with me.
‘I can’t even look at you right now, Zac, I’m that wild,’ she said. Her voice was tight with anger and embarrassment.
It’s a shame Mum comes into the story here because you might get the wrong impression. She was in a cranky mood that day (with good reason, I guess) but most of the time, she’s funny and good value.
Mum was only eighteen when she had me so she’s still young, compared to some other mothers. My dad took off and left us when my little sister, Amy, was born (she’s twelve now). Dad ended up in Queensland with his new wife and another set of kids. We only see him once a year because he can’t afford to fly us up there more often. It’s not a big deal and I don’t want to dump some ‘poor Zac’ story on you. I’m just explaining why Mum had reason to be tired and pissed off sometimes.
The blotchy glass door to the back room opened and Constable Alexakis popped her head out to see who’d rung the bell.
‘Hi Gail,’ Alexakis said when she realised it was Mum. ‘How are you?’
When someone asks ‘How are you?’ most people automatically answer ‘Good thanks.’ Not my mum. She pretended to strangle herself, making gross choking noises, and said, ‘I’m overworked, disappointed by life, driven mental by my kids – y’know, great.’ She was joking around but with a layer of serious underneath.
‘Do you know if Corey Matthews and his mother are on their way here?’ asked Alexakis.
‘Oh … sorry. No idea,’ said Mum.
Just then the front door opened. I expected to see Corey but instead, I heard a slow shuffling noise.
‘Oh, Mr Proudfoot,’ said Constable Alexakis. ‘Thanks so much for coming down.’
Earlier, Alexakis had noticed flakes of green paint in the crumpled metal of Stone’s shiny red vehicle. Then she spotted Mr Proudfoot’s smashed tail-light and flakes of re
d duco on his green Holden.
Mum and I sat in the waiting room while Alexakis interviewed Mr Proudfoot and sorted out what had really happened in the carpark. Straightaway, she phoned Ray Stone with the news. Stone was still ropable. He wanted me and Corey to be charged with reckless behaviour, vandalism, something, but Alexakis talked Stone out of making more of a fuss.
Mum took a humungous deep breath, relieved. I hadn’t realised until then how worried she’d been – worried I was in serious police trouble.
‘Far out, Zac,’ said Mum, ‘I know you get frustrated. But if you act like a moronic hoon, it’s exactly what guys like Ray Stone expect. A stupid stunt like today gets you nowhere.’
It also got me grounded for the next week.
‘I suppose the police confiscated your skateboard again.’
I nodded grimly.
‘This is the last time I ever beg the cops to hand back your skateboard. Next time, you can buy yourself a new one.’
‘Cool by me,’ I replied. ‘Only I’ll have to leave school and get a job to earn the money to buy a new board.’
‘Dream on,’ Mum snapped back.
‘Once I turn sixteen and then finish Year 10, you can’t make me stay at school.’
‘No, I can’t make you. But you’ve got a good brain and if you work hard –’
‘Work hard and you’ll get the benefit,’ I said, mimicking the voice Mum always used when we had this argument. She was very big on Amy and me working hard at school and maybe going to university.
At the start of high school, I’d worked hard, got good marks. But then I started to suss how screwed up everything is. The whole system is unfair anyway, so why bother? I pretty much gave up on schoolwork and my marks went down the toilet. It was driving Mum mental, as you can imagine, and we were always arguing about it.
‘You work hard,’ I said to Mum. ‘Where does it get you? Stuck at Chemistzone earning rip-off money, stuck in this rat-hole town with no life except the occasional sleazoid guy trying to crack onto you in the bowling club –’
‘Okay, Zac,’ Mum said, putting up her hand. ‘You made your point.’
Mum looked hurt – stung, as if I’d slapped her across the face with the words. I knew what I’d said was nasty. I wished I could take it back. But you can’t take something back once it’s out of your mouth and has whacked the other person in the face.
The point is, I want to be totally honest when I tell this story. If part of the story is that I made nasty cracks at my mum sometimes, I have to be honest about that too.
Constable Alexakis finished with Mr Proudfoot and then I copped the big lecture from her about skateboarding in a responsible way. I could’ve hurt someone or damaged property. I could’ve killed myself. Next time, the police wouldn’t be so lenient and I’d be in major trouble. And so on … you get the idea.
Finally, Alexakis smiled at Mum. ‘This skateboarding business is a mess. Sorry to drag you in here like this, Gail.’
Mum shrugged. She didn’t blame Constable Alexakis. ‘You have to do it. Since we live in Grumpsville, run by nasty old boofheads who grew up and forgot they were ever kids.’
Mum was always saying stuff like that about Narragindi. It might have been true but still, she didn’t have to rave on to people about it. Sometimes I wanted to shrivel up and die with embarrassment.
‘Mum …’ I whined.
She threw me the kind of angry look that could make your face melt right off the front of your skull. ‘I recommend you keep a low profile, mate,’ she said. ‘You’re still in serious trouble with me.’
‘It’s a shame we don’t have a skatepark for you guys yet,’ said Alexakis. ‘But hopefully, one day –’
‘Never happen,’ I muttered.
‘Have you seen this?’ asked Alexakis, sliding a brochure out of the display stand. She was the kind of perky young cop, still shiny from police training school, who thinks she can solve everyone’s problems.
The brochure was about some new thing – OzYouth Grants. If someone raised a chunk of money from sponsorships, then OzYouth would cough up the bigger chunk of money to build a skatepark. I didn’t bother looking at the brochure but Mum had a good squiz at it. She and Alexakis started gasbagging on about how great it would be to have a new campaign to build a skatepark in Narragindi.
I tuned out. I didn’t want to hear it. I just wanted to get my skateboard back and get out of the cop shop.
The door opened. It was Corey, followed by his mother, Trisha Matthews. Alexakis and Mum shut up straightaway.
Like the rest of the Matthews family, Trisha was freckly, with wispy red hair and white skin like uncooked pizza dough. Corey had dark curly hair and olive skin – taking after his father, I guess. But Corey had exactly the same big pastel-coloured eyes as his mother, eyes so light you’d only just say ‘blue’.
I don’t know how many genes Corey had inherited from the Matthews clan but I do know that he turned out very different from them. Since he was a little kid, I reckon he’d been watching – keeping his mouth shut but watching – and decided he was going to be a different kind of person. He talked to me, just once, about half wishing he could’ve stayed with his last foster family, in Wiley Creek. They were decent people, he reckoned. But in the end Corey always wanted to go home because looking after his mum was his number one priority.
Corey’s mum was the same age as my mother. They’d been in the same class at Narragindi High, like Corey and me. But Trisha Matthews looked way older than my mum – because she had a hard life, I suppose.
‘Hi Trisha,’ said Mum.
Trisha Matthews muttered hello to Mum but quickly looked away. Corey and I did a small nod to each other. On the sly, I gave him an ‘okay’ signal, so he’d know we weren’t about to go to jail. Corey shrank back into the corner of the waiting room and fixed his eyes on the floor. Whenever there was trouble, he made himself small and quiet, trying to be invisible.
Meanwhile, Trisha Matthews was talking to Alexakis. I tried not to stare but it was hard to miss the marks on Trisha’s face: bruises, a swollen, split lip and a bloody, messy part around her eye, like boxers get.
I could hear little scraps of what the policewoman was saying – persuading Trisha to say who had bashed her up. Alexakis had a pretty good idea it was Warren Beggs. Trisha shook her head and said she’d only come to the police station to sort out the situation with Corey, nothing else. So there was not much Alexakis could do.
Then the policewoman turned to me. ‘I’ll just dig out your skateboard, Zac.’
When Alexakis left the room, Trisha kept her head down and didn’t look at us. Mum took a step closer and smiled.
‘How’s everything for you guys?’ asked Mum. ‘Is Corey enjoying school this year?’
‘I dunno. You tell me,’ replied Trisha sharply. ‘My son practically lives at your place.’
That was half true. When things got bad for Corey at home, he’d turn up at our house to sleep the night. ‘Bedsurfing’ he called it. The year before, when Trisha was in hospital, Corey lived with us for three solid weeks. Mum’s policy was: there was always a bed for Corey at our house.
‘Well … you know, we like having him around,’ Mum said. ‘Give me a yell if I can do anything to help if you’re –’
Trisha’s eyes flashed angrily at Mum. ‘You wanna have a go at me too, like every other stuck-up dog in this town, do ya? You keep your sticky beak out of my family’s private business, okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Mum. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy.’
There was a terrible spiky silence that seemed to last for about fifteen minutes but was probably more like fifteen seconds. Finally, Alexakis came out of the back room with my skateboard. Mum and I headed for the door.
Trisha Matthews grabbed my mum by the arm. There were tears oozing up in Trisha’s eyes, trickling across the bloody, bruised patch. Her voice was small and wobbly, like a little kid afraid of getting into trouble.
‘Look
, Gail,’ murmured Trisha, ‘I’m – y’know … I know you look after Corey sometimes, when I need to get things sorted out … Anyway, I know you look out for him.’
‘Corey’s a good kid.’ That was all Mum said before she left.
On our way out into the street, I turned back, wanting to say goodbye to Corey. He didn’t see me. He was saying something to his mum. There wasn’t much the cops could do if Trisha wouldn’t say it was Warren who hit her. So Corey felt like he had to take care of her the best he could.
Trisha turned her head, not letting Corey look at her swollen eye. But when she nearly fell over, wobbly on her feet, she let him steady her.
That night, I was dead tired but I couldn’t sleep. My head was swirling with too much junk. Warren Beggs, the run-in with Stone, Lauren Saxelby turning up, the stupid idea of a new skatepark campaign, seeing Corey’s mum at the cop shop … it had been a full-on day. More than my poor old brain could process, that was for sure. So I just lay in bed and felt my leg muscles ache from landing that jump, until my brain switched off enough to sleep.
Chapter Six
The Aztecs – who really cares about them? When I was younger, around the age of my little sister, Amy, I loved history. I was close to becoming a certified History Nerd back then. Now, the idea of writing an essay imagining I was a young Aztec warrior was about as thrilling as lukewarm sick.
I had books and papers spread out all over the kitchen table and was trying to get excited about Aztecs. Meanwhile, Mum was tooling around on the internet, stabbing impatiently at the spongy keyboard on our old computer.
‘I remember the Aztecs were pretty interesting,’ she said in her Mrs Enthusiastic voice. ‘Weren’t they the ones who sacrificed people and made tequila out of cactuses?’
‘Great,’ I whined. ‘You go to school and learn about the pretty interesting Aztecs.’
‘I’d love the chance to go to tech or uni or whatever.’
Even though Mum was smart, she’d bombed out in her Year 12 because of me. Me being born, that is. Having a baby doesn’t do a lot of good for your HSC marks. Since I could remember, Mum was always talking about doing a course somewhere. But I guess with her job and us to look after, there wasn’t enough time.
