Will

by Maria Boyd

  Do you have any idea how close you came to being expelled today?

  My gut started its second workout for the day.

  Do you? It was only because the other teachers spoke on your behalf that you weren’t. I tried to tell them that maybe I could have been more supportive or—

  No way, Mum, it’s not your fault….

  I’m worried about you, Will. Really worried, and I’m not sure that—

  This was way out of control! She had nothing to do with it.

  Don’t be worried about me! I know Waverton reckons I need to be in a loony bin, but I honestly just did it for a laugh.

  But you seem so—

  I cut her off. No poor William session, not tonight.

  Honest, Mum, I’m fine. I know I’m seventeen years of age and too old to be doing such stupid things. But it’s going to stop from now on, I promise.

  I just kept plowing through, trying to mop up her hurt with my words.

  Look, they’ve given me my punishment and that’s going to make sure I don’t have a life, so you don’t have to worry about me getting into trouble ever again. Really!

  She cut me a look that said that if I ever did anything that stupid again, she would pack me off to my grandparents’ house, the land of nana smells, bed by eight o’clock and side-part comb-overs—and that’s just my grandmother.

  I knew from past experience that her silence meant I was finally winning some ground.

  You should see what I have to do over the next two months! Operation Musical will be a death sentence for my social life. Every friend I ever had will disown me for fear of being infected.

  The eyes lifted.

  So you see, Mum, when you think about it, this might have been the best thing that could’ve happened to me.

  The eyes flashed.

  If you think for one minute that I am going to buy that rubbish, then you have clearly underestimated my intelligence.

  Mum … I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know why I did it and I am really sorry. And I am really, really sorry you’re so upset.

  And I meant it, I really did. She’s the first in my top three of things I’m most sure of: my mum, my guitar and my mates.

  I know I’ve been in a bit …

  Her eyebrows jumped nearly to her hairline.

  … a lot of trouble lately, but …

  She interjected. I’d stop now if I were you.

  But I knew she finally believed me, and a tiny half-smile flickered on her face.

  Serves you right, William. I hope you’re condemned to being a social reject for the rest of your teenage life and you have to spend every Saturday night looking after your mother.

  That’s not very motherly of you, Mum.

  You’re bloody right it’s not.

  And about three seconds later a pillow landed square in my face.

  Elective music

  There were very few things about school that were cool, but without a doubt you would have to rate the music rooms and the music-room dwellers in the cool category. I don’t mean full-on geeks who only played in the school band. I mean those of us who were in bands and made our own music. Now that was where the cool factor could be found.

  Take the school music room: there were virtually no desks or chairs; electric organs, speakers and leads covered the few that were lying around. It didn’t matter if you only knew three chords, you could just turn up the amp and blast yourself into a different hemisphere. And the best part about senior music was the fact that the teachers basically left you alone to do your own thing, so as not to stifle your creativity or something.

  Music: it’s all good.

  I made my way over to plug in my amp. Chris was already there. He and I had started hanging out together in preschool. I was put there so my liberated social worker mother could go off to crusade for the needy, Chris because he was the first of five and his mum needed a break. We’ve hung out ever since. He’s the closest thing I’ve got to a brother. And he’s a good bloke, the kind of bloke that people look up to and leave alone. Ray Casey had been running a book from the beginning of Year 11 working out the odds for who was going to get school captain next year; Chris had been a consistent favorite. And he can play the drums like a demon.

  He looked up from his drum kit. Mate! St. Andrew’s hero!

  Shut up. I’ve already had enough of that hero crap from Jock.

  But you are! The twins didn’t shut up about you when they got home. You’re rating higher than The Footy Show in our house.

  You’re a day late, Chris. I heard all of this yesterday. Where the hell have you been anyway? Your best mate is about to be kicked out of the school and you’re Mr. No-Show.

  Cut me some slack, a guy’s allowed to be sick, isn’t he? Dad made his famous Holden Camping Goulash and it had me squatting behind a bloody bush all night. Everyone else was fine but, man, I was lethal! Mum reckoned I should stay at home, but if I’d known that I was going to miss out on the Willo and Waddlehead show, I would have made a real effort and let everyone else suffer.

  Thanks for your support, I said sarcastically as I strapped on my guitar.

  No problem. So what did they give you? Saturday detention until you finish Year Twelve? Cleaning out the toilets with a toothbrush? Or my personal favorite, the gum-scraping, graffiti-cleaning happy participant of the St. Andrew’s cleanup day?

  I shook my head. It was pretty obvious Chris had never been in real trouble his whole school life.

  Worse. Waddlehead got me right in the gonads. He’s making me be part of the school musical. Can you believe that? Some sort of bloody experiment for disturbed students. If he has his way I’ll be director, star performer, on the box office, selling lime cordial and striking the set on the last night. And he reckons that’s getting off lightly!

  By this time I had plugged into the amp, which meant I had limited room to move. But the more I got wound up the more I walked around like a madman. I was like one of those Energizer bunnies trapped in a shoebox.

  Imagine having to spend the next two months hanging out with those jerks. The bloody band, Chris! You know it’s going to be made up of Brother Patrick’s Year Seven brass-playing try-hards. And the performers will be worse! No Year Twelves do it because they have to study. So that cuts out guys who’d do it for a laugh. I don’t know anyone in Year Eleven who’s trying out for any of the guys’ parts and they are probably all puncey anyway. And let’s not even think about the hundreds of screaming Year Seven girls. They’ll be wetting their pants with excitement just being in the chorus, deluded into thinking it will be their chance to be spotted by the producers of Australian Idol or some other really sad reality-TV show.

  I was on a roll now and wasn’t stopping.

  And you know what’s even worse? It was Andrews’s idea. Do you believe that? Andrews betrayed me big-time. Bastard.

  Chris was looking at me calmly, a slight smile on his face.

  Oh, I don’t know, according to some of the boys there are some rather fine babes who get involved in the musical. If I had more time and wasn’t such a coward I’d volunteer my services.

  That was an angle I had not considered.

  Come on, Chris! I begged with no shame. That would be so cool. At least then I wouldn’t have to suffer alone.

  Chris picked up the drumsticks.

  Nah, mate, you’re on your own this time. Besides, even if I did, I wouldn’t be doing it to hold your hand. He threw the drumsticks up in the air and caught them. I’d be doing it so I could have the chance of holding the hand of someone far prettier than you.

  I ducked the drumstick he pegged my way and threw it back at him.

  Shut up, you wanker, and play.

  A very different kind of Friday afternoon

  Even for St. Andrew’s, news of my punishment had sped around the school in Guinness Book of World Records time. The fact that I was condemned to a life of geeksville for the next couple of months proved to be a constant source of amusement for
everyone in the senior quad. And they seized every opportunity to remind me of my sentence.

  It was another Friday afternoon and the quad was filled with anticipation of the weekend: football matches, barbecues, parties, drinks and girls, not necessarily in that order. Boys moved among the groups, hearing who was going where and what the best offer was. There’s nothing like that Friday-afternoon feel, except when your mother’s grounded you and your English teacher has condemned you to death by musical.

  Hey, Willo, are you going to Dion’s brother’s party? Should be a big one.

  I shook my head. Mum had made it pretty clear that I wasn’t going anywhere for a very long time.

  No, mate, can’t. All part of the St. Andrew’s payback.

  At least he had the decency to look sorry for me.

  I turned around and saw Tim running toward me. This was going to be a completely different story. You could see he was already buzzing with the thought of the weekend.

  Hey, Willo! He jumped over my bag and landed right in front of me. There’s a new guy from Melbourne who’s just made it on to the footy team, Mark someone, top footballer … big bloke …

  I looked at Tim blankly, waiting for him to get to the point.

  Anyway, he’s invited the footy boys to watch the game at his place tonight. We asked if we could bring some ring-ins, soft soccer heads like yourself.

  Great, so the new guy’s been here for two seconds and he has more of a life than I do.

  He’s a good bloke, you’ll like him. It’ll be a pretty quiet one, though, because we’ll be saving it up for Saturday night.

  Right. Dion’s brother’s eighteenth. I bet your new man got an invite to that as well.

  It’s all about the keg and the girls, Willo, all about the keg and the girls. He nearly broke his face he was grinning so hard. The Jockmeister’s putting on the recovery on Sunday. He slapped me on the shoulder. Man, everything about this weekend is good. We are going to parrrteee!

  This was obviously a rev-up. I waited, saying nothing.

  What?

  His face was like a five-year-old’s who’s been accused of doing something he didn’t do.

  How can you have given me shit all week and forgotten now?

  What, Will? I don’t know what you’re talking about!

  Hey, Willo, Timmy boy, what’s up?

  Whereas Jock, on the other hand …

  Willo’s giving me grief for telling him about the weekend.

  He even said it like a whingeing five-year-old.

  Jock looked at me and grinned. He put his arm over my shoulder and spoke to Tim.

  Mate … mate, you know what this means?

  Tim shook his head.

  This means young William here gets to hang out all weekend with the geek freak show. That would be sooooo much fun. Don’t you wish we had to do it too?

  By this time Tim was finally getting it. He burst out laughing and high-fived Jock.

  Ohh. Right. Yeah mate, we’ll miss you. But don’t worry, we’ll be thinking of you when we’re out pulling chicks and having beers. Don’t you worry, mate. Two looooooooong months will pass in no time.

  They high-fived each other again, slapped me on the back and laughed all the way to the bus stop, waving as they went.

  I left them to it and decided to head over to Chris’s, the only place I was allowed to go apart from school and home, and even then only in half-hour intervals. I could still hear Jock and Tim carrying on at the bus stop. If it were either of them in trouble, I’d give them heaps too. It wasn’t not being able to go out that bothered me so much. Since the accident I’d been happy to come to school, see the boys, go home, play the guitar. Considering I had been up for anything last year, I suppose it was a pretty big change, but the boys accepted it. They’d throw an invite my way and then leave me alone.

  That’s what got me most about the Save Will Armstrong campaign. I was happy with the way things were. I’d been making a real effort to do nothing and the musical screwed with all of that.

  The end of freedom

  It was Saturday morning. Early. Too early, but the time for the crime had already begun in Mum’s book.

  Come on, Will, it’s time to go.

  She stood in my bedroom doorway dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. At least I could be grateful that she wasn’t wearing that kooky gardening outfit. I was still in my boxers, mucking around with a new tune that had been hanging around in my head.

  No it’s not. The auditions don’t start till nine.

  Her hands were already on her hips: no chance for negotiation.

  I don’t care. You’re going to get there early and you are going to offer any assistance that you can to the teachers, especially Mr. Andrews.

  That man was going to die.

  Mum, I don’t need to get there this early!

  I negotiated my way around her and made it to the bathroom. She followed close behind.

  I don’t care. Will. You’re going whether you like it or not. And more to the point, this is the last time I will be dropping you at school. You can ride your bike in future.

  Great. Most people were beginning to beg their way into taking their parents’ cars out and I had to ride my bike. Dad’s car sat in the garage waiting for someone to make it useful. But even if I could drive it I probably wouldn’t.

  All right, Mum!

  I closed the bathroom door and started to brush my teeth. A sense of dread filled my gut in anticipation of the day’s events. I tried to concentrate on the girl factor. I mean, what girl wouldn’t be interested in a sensitive, guitar-playing guy like me? I love to throw words around, and that’s what girls are meant to like, isn’t it, the fact that a bloke can talk to them? I can talk and play music … and I’m all right at football and soccer.

  I’m not ugly either. I mean, I don’t look in the mirror and think, Man, you should lock yourself up you are so damn ugly. I reckon I’m pretty average. Lots of brown happening: brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. I’ve had the really bad growth spurt that most blokes go through, all legs and arms and not much else. That really is when you’re ugly. When you can barely coordinate your feet with your legs, your arms with your torso, your head with your chin. No, I’ve definitely moved from the my nose doesn’t fit my face stage. Suppose I’m fairly tall, tall but not huge. Mum reckons I’ve got big dreamy brown eyes, but that’s what mums are like.

  William!

  Her voice came loud and clear through the wooden door.

  You have exactly five minutes to get out of that bathroom, get changed and get yourself in the car!

  I looked into the mirror. Who was I kidding? My mother was driving me to school on a Saturday morning so I could play music with a bunch of socially retarded geeks.

  I may as well have loser printed on my T-shirt ’cause no girl was going to rate a guy like that.

  The freak

  Mum lightened up during the car ride to school. She was going off to have her hair cut in what she called a funky hairdressers and have lunch with “the girls.” She made the you may actually enjoy it speech, as anticipated, and drove off before I could deliver my comeback.

  Which of course meant it went round and round my head as I made my way around from the school’s side entrance. Andrews had made a big deal of saying they would be the only gates open and if we didn’t make it on time we’d be locked out. Fine by me!

  I walked up through the Years 8 and 9 yard, picked my way over the squashed banana and oranges that had probably been used as ammunition in some You’re not the boss of me, wanker! battle and made my way to the hall. St. Andrew’s Hall was like some kind of museum, full of old stuff and old smells. The walls were covered with ancient dusty photos and wooden boards that showed the names of school captains, sporting captains and guys who had fought and died in wars. The best thing about the photographs was the really bad haircuts and the size of the footy shorts.

  Underneath the boards were rows of cabinets full of old trophies. Above the st
age there was a giant banner proclaiming ST. ANDREW’S COLLEGE: RICH IN TRADITION FOR ONE HUNDRED YEARS. It was meant to inspire us, or that’s what Waddlehead told us at assemblies. I didn’t get what the big deal was. So the school’d been around for one hundred years. It was old, that was all it meant; old, old-fashioned and dead boring.

  There was the definite sound of strangled cats and elephants’ farts coming from the guts of the hall. I wasn’t the only one who’d arrived early, except this lot had probably begged their parents to get them here at this hour. I tried to think positively. Chris was right. I just had to concentrate on the girl factor. I moved into the hall to do a recce …

  Oh no! Seriously bad! Seriously, seriously bad. There were no girls anywhere.

  I was completely surrounded by blokes! And not just any blokes but the singing, performing, dancing kind who were willing to give up their weekends for the sake of their art. I scanned the room, wanting one glimmer, one spark of hope.

  Where were the girls, the babes, the chicks, the hotties?

  Nowhere!

  Wall-to-wall blokes.

  I looked over at the band. Yep, just as I had predicted. Year 7, 8 and 9 try-hard geeks. Even worse, junior try-hard geeks who didn’t know they were responsible for the strangled cat and elephants’ fart sounds I’d heard five minutes earlier.

  I was two seconds away from making a really fast exit. I knew Mum would freak but I’d talk her around. There was no way I could survive this! Just as I was about to leave I saw some of the band nudging one another. Chris was right: all these younger guys seemed to recognize me. They’d probably heard about my punishment before I did. There was no way I could bolt after being seen. It would get back to Andrews and he’d be straight on the phone to Waddlehead or worse … my mother.

  What can you do but try to act casual and make it clear you’re pissed off with being there? That part wasn’t hard.

  Hey!

  I turned my head ever so slightly, enough to acknowledge the little geek’s existence, but nothing more than that.

  Aren’t you the guy who mooned the Lakeside bus last week?