by Maria Boyd
I walked past the bloke I winked at on Friday afternoon. He was the main man of the brothers, that’s why his statue was stuck right where everyone could see it. The front of the school looked old, like one of those posh English boarding schools. Lots of sandstone and gardens, with a bell tower on the main building that made sure everyone in the area knew how important the place was. But it was the only building like that. The rest of the school was brick and concrete, and then farther back, so no one could see them, they stuck the demountable schoolrooms. That’s exactly what St. Andrew’s was like. It thought it was a cut above the rest, but when you really got down to it, it was just the same as any other school except that it was majorly strict, and the gates that kept us in were fancy gates.
I could hear the senior quad before I got within thirty meters of it. If someone came up with a way to take the sound from boys schools and make it into fuel, they would be a trillionaire and everyone could stop freaking out about the world’s energy crisis.
I walked past the canteen and swung into the quad to find a full-scale handball competition in progress between Years 11 and 12. No doubt the brainchild of Tim and Jock, who have not yet come to terms with the fact that with the passing of every year they are moving away from childhood. They spend most of their energy trying to keep themselves at twelve.
No way that was out, man! I’m not going anywhere!
See.
Jock looked around for someone to acknowledge his cries of injustice and found me.
Willo! My hero! At which point he knelt down in his square, careful not to lose his position, and bowed.
Get up, you wanker. This is all your fault.
No way, mate, don’t you go blaming me. I only offered five bucks. I didn’t think even you’d be that cheap.
At this point the other boys joined in.
Whooo!
Nice arse, Will! How about you and me make a date for the toilets at lunchtime?
That was Tim—he always made it his job to push things too far. The other boys followed.
You’d want to be careful the boys on Oxford Street don’t track you down.
Well, it wasn’t as if the Lakeside girls were exactly throwing their phone numbers out the window.
Yeah, but I heard they were throwing up!
At this point they were falling into one another they were laughing so hard. I walked away to dump my bag to the sound of their triumphant hand-slapping, shaking my head as I went.
This was exactly how it had been for the past four years. The usual piss-taking and shaking of hands that greeted every morning. This was what I knew. This was where I belonged.
I came over and took my place on the line. Jock was still refusing to get out and no amount of yelling from the other blokes was going to shift him. Eventually the game started again. The St. Andrew’s boys were a mixed crew, the seniors even more so because we had blow-ins from other schools for Years 11 and 12. It was one of the selling points in the glossy brochure the school tried to flog every year: St. Andrew’s, a college that celebrates diversity or some such crap. And it was crap because most of the time all they ever went on about was making sure we all looked and acted the same.
Over near Danielli’s office was where the wogs hung out. The wogs—a title they proudly gave themselves, even though Danielli always told them off about it, and he was one himself—were made up of mainly Italians and Greeks, with a spattering of Croatians. The skips—the Aussies, another title Danielli didn’t like—hung out on the seats outside the senior classrooms. They were a combination of footy-heads, a few skaters (though normally the skaters would be with the druggies) and some classic yobs. The Asians took up what was left of the seats next to the skips. Danielli didn’t get too worked up about the Asian label but he was always very careful about acknowledging their different nationalities. This was something Jock didn’t figure out until last year, when St. Andrew’s was running its own version of the Soccer World Cup. He couldn’t understand why they didn’t just have an Asian team and why they had to split into Korea, China and Japan. Then there were the Lebs—Danielli did get really worked up about that one. They hung out with the wogs and the skips, but mainly the skips, maybe because most of them played league, not soccer, who knows?
The goths and the druggies hid under the stairs of Harrigan block. There weren’t very many of them and they weren’t exactly hard-core. The extent of most of their gothdom was their dyed black hair, although the talk around the quad was that one of the Year 12 guys actually wore white makeup and black lipstick on the weekends. And the druggies, well, they were pretty harmless and didn’t do much more than smoke the occasional spliff.
That left the rejects, the kids who’d been backpackers all their school life, moving from group to group, not quite sure of where they fit in. Some of those guys ended up in the library, and others found each other and spent their senior years hanging out together anywhere they could find a clear space.
Us? We took up three long seats underneath the walkway from the quad to the library. We were mongrels, a hybrid of all the groups: a couple of footy-heads, soccer players, good students and musos, assorted Filipinos, Lebs, wogs and skips. We were the easygoing crowd. We did well enough at school, which meant we had to fight hard not to end up in the nerd category. At various times in our school careers we had all engaged in several incidents which guaranteed our we may be smart but we are certainly not geeks reputation.
Me, I was a soccer-playing skip, an honorary wog, though I’d pulled out this season. I just wasn’t interested. Something else Danielli had given me a hard time about. I thought about what he had said about me being different from last year. I didn’t know what to think about that. Danielli and the others reckoned I was going through a difficult time. No doubt they’d collect the moon incident as further evidence to support this finding.
I just wish they’d get over it. So I’ve changed, who cares! But I wasn’t going to think about that until 3:30 p.m.
Period five
All right, boys, let’s make a start.
Mr. Andrews, Advanced English. Cool dude even though he did have the same name as the school he worked in, a fact one intelligent individual or another reminded him of every day.
Andrews looked in my direction. He raised an eyebrow at me and said, So I hear you have added more legend to the folklore of St. Andrew’s College, Mr. Armstrong.
That’s one way of looking at it, sir.
I grinned at him, encouraged by the laughs around the classroom.
You only serve to demean yourself and others around you by engaging in such acts.
Instantly the laughing stopped. Dead silence.
Don’t you think that young men get enough bad press without you adding to it?
Feeling more and more like a loser with each second, I gave it another go.
Come on, sir, it was just for laughs. It’s not a big deal. I thought you’d at least get a kick out of it.
No, Will, I didn’t. It appears that I happen to think far more of you than you obviously do of yourself.
Slammmmmmed!
Man, that came from left field. Normally Andrews was really cool about everything. You could mention all the teacher taboos around him—girls, the fact that you haven’t done your homework (for other subjects, that is), and parts of what you did on Saturday night—and you would only get a raised eyebrow. But not today. Well, he needed to go back home and have a look around for his sense of humor, because he sounded just like every other boring teacher.
So, gentlemen, if we can draw our attention away from Mr. Armstrong’s amazing feat, we need, ironically, to get back to the idea of looking at the male stereotype and in particular the young male stereotype.
He was always on about that type of stuff, about the evils of prejudging and typecasting, and insisting that we be critical learners. He reckoned young blokes got a bad rap in society, especially on those lame current affairs TV shows. I didn’t know what he was so uptight about. It wasn�
�t as if I was a walking stereotype who was going to go on some sleazy guy’s bullshit TV show. He needed to lighten up. I’d tell him where he could put his irony …
Mr. Armstrong, do you intend to do any work this lesson?
Just not right now.
Yes, sir.
3:30 p.m.—The punishment
Danielli and I had been waiting outside Waddlehead’s office for over fifteen minutes. Every five minutes Danielli would stand up, walk three steps, stop, check his watch and sit down again.
I was spending my time staring at Waverton’s name on his door, trying to remember when we first started calling him Waddlehead. I think it was back in Year 7. It was definitely Jock who made it up. He’d seen an old Batman movie and he thought that the Penguin was exactly like Waverton. Except he forgot that he was called Penguin and called him Waddlehead instead. Even though the name was wrong, the walk was spot-on.
The door opened. Instantly Danielli and I straightened to attention. Waddlehead stood with his back to us, facing the window. We walked in silently. Danielli pulled a chair toward the left side and melted into the background, leaving me to face the attack alone.
Sit down, William.
Waddlehead turned around and stared right at me. As he stared he clicked his mouth, like he was trying to get a candy out of his back teeth. Except I couldn’t imagine Waddlehead having candy. It would be more like one of those really bad mints your grandfather offers you as if it was some sort of treat. The room was silent except for Waddlehead’s click … click … click … .
Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Danielli and myself have been thinking long and hard about the appropriate punishment for such a foolish and reckless act, William. However, it has become clear that we cannot view this latest incident, although quite spectacular in its severity, in isolation.
He waved my file in the air.
You, my young man, have been summoned to this office due to a long list of equally serious misdemeanors of which this latest degrading escapade is the final straw.
At this point he stopped the clicking and began to circle me.
Mr. Armstrong, you have come to the end. You will no longer run roughshod over our rules, our school name, our hundred-year-old traditions. It is time for you to step up and accept the consequences for such blatant disregard for St. Andrew’s standards.
I broke into a sweat. My head filled with pictures of Mum’s face.
Long pause. Expulsion is something that was considered very seriously.
I broke into a sweat of a different kind. OK, so no expulsion …
Very seriously. In fact I remain unconvinced that it is not the best course of action for everyone involved. Including you, William.
He slammed my file back onto his desk and it exploded on impact.
However, it appears you are a well-thought-of young man. A number of people wish to see you succeed and make something of yourself—Mr. Danielli being one of them. He has spoken very highly of your past academic performance, your popularity with the boys and your flair on the soccer field. He seems to believe that you can pull yourself back on track.
I tried to look over my shoulder at Danielli but Waddlehead had me trapped.
Is this confidence misplaced, William?
No, sir.
Your mother agrees with Mr. Danielli. It is one of the things she assured me of during our rather lengthy conversation this afternoon.
I really hated it when they brought Mum into it.
She is worried about you, William. She said you seem aimless and distracted. I suggested the school counselor but she said you were very reluctant to go. Quite frankly, it appears you have reached the stage where you need someone to step in and set very firm boundaries for you, as you clearly can no longer decide what is good for you and what is not.
Now, we are well aware you find yourself in a difficult phase at present. But you cannot use what has happened as some sort of excuse. God knows, life will always throw difficult things our way, but it is how we choose to deal with them that shows the real character of a man. However, we will not have it said that St. Andrew’s deserts its troubled students. We have always prided ourselves on having an educational institution that caters to the whole child. As such, we see last week’s act as a clear cry for help.
What the …? All of a sudden I could see myself being carted off to some sort of loony bin.
We have decided to proceed in a somewhat unconventional manner. Actually, you have Mr. Andrews to thank for this suggestion. Yet another member of staff who has gone in to bat for you, William.
I knew Andrews was acting strange in English.
He tells us you’re quite a gifted musician.
What?
William?
Traitor!
Is this true?
I couldn’t tell where the hell this was going and it worried me.
I wouldn’t say gifted, sir. Not like the next Jimi Hendrix, maybe more like …
He started clicking again. I quickly shut up.
As you are no doubt aware, William, the annual combined musical with Lakeside Girls is coming up and there is always a desperate need for volunteers. It is one of the highlights of St. Andrew’s school calendar and an excellent public relations exercise. You, Mr. Armstrong, are to offer your services over the coming months as musician and general dogsbody … whatever role is deemed necessary. But not only that, young man, you will present yourself as an exemplary role model for the junior boys who, unlike you seniors, take the musical very seriously indeed.
He paused and rubbed his chin. Eyeballing me the whole time.
Make sure you thank Mr. Andrews for such a creative solution. This means you can give back to the college in a positive and productive manner—very progressive, very progressive.
A creepy grin filled his face. It was pretty clear that Waddlehead was very pleased with himself.
Well, what do you say?
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Years of cultivating my ranking at St. Andrew’s instantly shattered. The school musical was always on the fringes of geeksville, but to be involved with the band was the lowest. At least when you were acting in the musical you got to hang out with the girls. The band was full of losers.
He continued to look at me. What did he think, that I was going to bend over and kiss his bloody feet? Mr. Andrews was going to die!
Yes, sir.
Yes sir what, Mr. Armstrong?
Yes, sir, I’ll do it, sir.
Of course you will do it. You have no choice. It is now up to you, William. Do not let us down.
He put his face right into mine and spoke really, really quietly.
Be assured, my boy, if you do there will be no second chances.
Forget the fact that he had just stuck his head in my face, something he would have suspended any kid in the playground for. What bothered me the most was that Waddlehead really needed to suck on one of my grandfather’s mints.
Yes, sir.
I looked over at Mr. Danielli and waited for my cue to get the hell out of there. He thanked Waddlehead for his time, shook his hand and left, looking as relieved as I did to be released. I didn’t know what his problem was. I was the one who had just been signed up for two months’ service in a sheltered workshop.
Home
Mum was waiting for me in the lounge room. This threw me completely off guard. Normally all Armstrong business was conducted at the kitchen table: holiday discussions, school reports, conflict resolution, the handing down of punishments, what you wanted from Santa Claus. I could hear the sounds of Joni Mitchell, one of Mum’s sad but serious CDs, coming from the stereo and knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. I stood in the doorway and tried to prepare myself.
It was quiet except for Joni’s voice, quiet and dark. Mum had lit all the candles and she was sitting right in the corner of the sofa, surrounded by cushions, with her feet up, holding a glass of wine. She was staring, looking at nothing, with her head resting on her knees. She looked really,
really small and I felt really, really bad.
I knew what was coming. Sometimes I wish Mum would just lose it and yell and scream, but she has to talk about everything. She’d been extra vigilant since January. It made me think of Mad-Eye Moody in those Harry Potter books. But instead of looking for the evil bloke Voldemort, she was looking out for any sign of me losing my grip.
The he who can’t be named in our house was Dad. Actually, that was not strictly true; I think Mum really wanted to talk about Dad but I wouldn’t. I didn’t see the point. It made her upset and it made me feel like an idiot. Clearly not an enjoyable experience for anyone involved.
Anyway, Dad was not the topic of conversation this evening; the fact that I had exposed my backside to the world was.
Why, Will?
She hadn’t moved. I shifted from the doorway and made my way to the other end of the sofa.
Why, Will? she asked again.
What do you say to your mum when she asks you why you dropped your pants in front of a hundred adolescents in full view of the general public?
I don’t know, Mum. I didn’t think about it. The bus was stuck, everyone was looking around waiting for something to happen, it was Friday afternoon, Jock dared me, and it seemed like a funny thing to do at the time. Millions of reasons. No real reason.
She hung her head for a few moments and then put down the wineglass.
Mum, it doesn’t mean I’m a dirty pervert. It doesn’t mean you have to put me in therapy. It doesn’t mean anything. I just did it, that’s all. I promise you it will never happen again.
She looked so sad and tired. By this time my feeling like a complete loser had multiplied by infinity.
But it’s not just what happened on Friday, Will, can’t you see that? The past six months have been full of moments when you do something stupid or dangerous and then you say you’re sorry but in another few days you go and do something stupid again. And whatever we … I … try to do doesn’t seem to have any effect.
She turned and looked straight into my eyes.
