Underdogs: Three Novels

by Markus Zusak

  In the morning, I decided Steve would be first.

  Around ten, I walked up to his apartment. I didn’t have to ring the buzzer because he and Sal were up on the balcony. He didn’t call me up. Instead, he disappeared and came down to meet me. It was a gesture, I guesse was coming to me.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him.

  “Where you on at today?” My voice was friendly. Giving.

  Steve looked up at the balcony, but he didn’t answer my question. He said, “What are you doing here?” I could tell he was shocked that I’d come, to face him in daylight. “If I were you, I’d never speak to me again.” He looked away. “If I were you, I’d hate me forever.”

  “But I’m not you,” I said. “I can’t beat up a group of guys one by one. I can’t kick a goal after beer’s been thrown at my head — hell, I can’t even kick one without the beer. But I can stand here, in front of you. I can look you in your eyes when you never expected to see me again. I can survive anything you do or say to me.”

  The breeze took a breath.

  It paused — stopped completely — and Steve spoke.

  “Okay.”

  For a last moment, I looked at him, then left. I moved out from under the balconies and called up to Sal, “I’ll see y’ later,” then turned back to Steve. “I might come up tomorrow or later in the week. Maybe we can go up to the oval.”

  “Sounds good,” he replied, and we went our own ways.

  That was the first part done. Now for Octavia.

  I went by train to the harbor, and when I stepped out onto the platform, I felt like nothing today would stop me. All my thoughts leaned now toward the girl, and from the railing, I looked for the crowd of people that would be gathered around her, watching, listening, and taking in the music that flowed from her.

  She wasn’t there, though.

  The place that was hers was completely empty. Not even other buskers went there, because it seemed Octavia had ownership of it. The stretch toward the Harbour Bridge was only that — a stretch, a path. There was no music, and no people.

  I ran down there and stood alone at the exact place, hit hard by the silence that surrounded me. For a few minutes, I looked wildly around, trying to find something, anything that would lead me to a scent of the girl.

  Nothing.

  I even asked some people if they’d seen a harmonica player.

  They said there was one over on the other side, near the Opera House, and barely remembering to thank them, I took off. I ran around to the other side, past the ferry entrance, the ticket offices, and the boulevard of too-expensive cafés and restaurants.

  Finally, near the Opera House steps, I could hear the sound of a harmonica and I hoped.

  There! I thought, but when I rounded the corner, there was old man, sitting down, playing. No Octavia.

  My hopes struggled forward.

  They fell crooked as I moved in a staggered circle, looking and attempting to find her. I began walking the city, and soon realized that I’d be walking all afternoon. My feet took me through the entire city center, but all I found were those mime people, pen sellers for the Royal Blind Society, and the odd didgeridoo player. The girl was nowhere.

  With aching legs and feet, I eventually boarded a train for Hurstville and walked back down to Octavia’s place. God, it was such a parody of the first time I’d walked down there. The nerves were even more intense now, but the reality was awful. It was almost obscene, because last time, I knew she wanted me. Deep down, I knew. This time though, if she was in there, I couldn’t be sure if she would come out. And even if she did, would it be to tell me to go home, go away, go anywhere as long as it was away from her?

  It was late afternoon when I made it there and started the vigil.

  Soon, an hour was gone and so was the light.

  The streetlights scratched themselves on.

  There was no Octavia. There was no girl.

  There was only me, Cameron Wolfe, standing in front of a house where Octavia Ash happened to live. At one point, there was movement near the light that hid behind the front door, but no one came out.

  You better go, I told myself, but not before I stayed one last minute and reminded myself of what this all meant. The cruelty of it walked past, digging its shoulder into me along the way. The cruelty, I thought, because here I was again, standing outside a girl’s house who didn’t want me — and this time it was worse, much worse, because she’d even asked me to stand there. Only twenty-four hours ago, she’d still wanted me, and now, it was all finished. I was still alone. I was still standing there, and now it wasn’t just a walk from home. Now I had to come a lot further to stand amongst the same failure, to feel the same aloneness and humiliation.

  When I left, I looked back, and there was no one looking out the window or brushing a curtain aside to watch me leave. There was nothing but the empty street and me.

  The next night was the same.

  Then, the next, and the next.

  I resolved to stand there every night until Octavia came out, no matter how long it took.

  It became routine, like waking up and putting on your pants. My routine was getting up, walking to school, and contemplating all of it as I stared at graffitied desks and wandered through the lonely halls of each building. I noticed how much laughter there was at school. It came to me suddenly, like echoes, like paint. Like paint splayed over me, coloring me a sickly human color. I would do what had to be done there, then head down to Octavia’s, stand for two hours, and come home. Dinner was next, and walking Miffy, alone. Rube stopped walking him with me after the fight.

  It was rareo see Rube at all that week.

  The only time we spoke was when the phone started ringing again.

  “It’s the Phonecaller,” I’d tell him. I never hung around to listen to what was said, and most times the phone was left dead. I could see Rube getting more and more frustrated, and I quietly felt glad that his womanizing had made his life at least a little uncomfortable.

  As for the vigils down in Hurstville, the door finally opened on Friday night, but it wasn’t Octavia who came out. It was a woman who had clearly given Octavia the shape of her face, and her eyes and lips. She walked slowly, almost sadly toward me.

  There was kindness in her eyes and I recall the sincerity in her voice.

  When she was close enough, she said, “You’re Cameron, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Ash, I am.” I kept my head up and made sure to look at her. Keep proud, I thought.

  “I thought it was best to come out and tell you that Octavia’s not here tonight — she’s gone to stay at a friend’s place for the weekend.” I could tell it pained her slightly to have to speak to me like this. “You should go home.” “Okay.”

  I said the word but I didn’t mean it.

  Nothing was okay, and I didn’t want to go home.

  Before I walked away, I turned and asked, “The whole weekend?”

  Mrs. Ash nodded. “Take tomorrow night off — you deserve a rest.” Her eyes swayed momentarily. “And Cameron?”

  “Yes?”

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, okay?”

  That was when I simply stood there. I didn’t want her pity. I wanted to spit at it. Throw it off me. Kill it. Yet all I managed to do was stand there a few seconds more and walk away.

  I’ll be back Sunday, I said to myself when I turned off the street, and I wondered if the girl truly was at a friend’s place.

  “You haven’t given up, have you?” Sarah asked me the next night, and I told her about the conversation with Mrs. Ash. We were in her room. Her photos and some other small drawings were sitting on the desk.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I’ll be back there tomorrow night.”

  “Good.”

  Like clockwork, I was there again the next night, and then every evening during the week. I stood there for up to two hours. Sometimes longer. A few times, it looked like rain, but it didn’t c
ome until a week and a half later. I stood there and splinters of rain soon turned to nails. I remained standing there, soaked, and that was wfinally drew the girl out the front door and onto the porch.

  “Cameron!?” she cried out, and I begged for her next words to be, “Come inside, come inside,” but they weren’t.

  She came down toward the gate and the rain clamped down on her hair and dribbled down her face. Her voice was hard and loud, and it trapped me amongst the rain.

  “Cameron, get out of here!” It was almost a shriek. Her green eyes were desperate and full of warm water, ready to mix with the ice that seemed to be bucketing from the sky. It didn’t even take a minute for her to be completely wet and she was so beautiful, it nearly made me choke. “Go!” she shouted again. “Go home!” She closed her eyes in pain and turned, to go back inside.

  She was nearly at the front door when I found my voice. It made its way over my beating heart and into my mouth.

  “Why!?” I called to her. She turned to face me as I went on. “Why are you doing this to me!?” I swallowed, and met her face. “You rescued me from this once. Why are you putting me through it again?”

  Hurt, she moved to the edge of the steps, raised her head, and punctured me.

  She said, “Well maybe it’s time you started rescuing yourself!”

  It rained — harder and louder — and we stood there, each alone, as the words defeated both of us. Octavia was wounded and wet, and slowly, completely soaked with sorrow, she turned and went back inside. I remained at the gate, crushed by the heaviness of her words and the rain.

  In the train on the way home, no one sat next to me because I was so wet.

  There was so much of me, drooling all over the seat and onto the floor, sitting in a pool of defeat. At Central, I pulled my ticket out of my pocket, but all that was left of it was a soggy lump of paper. It would never go through the machine.

  A collector was in the booth. She was a relatively old lady with some facial hair, and she was chewing gum. When I approached her, I held out the pathetic clump in my hand.

  “That’s your ticket?” she inquired.

  “That’s right,” I answered morosely.

  She studied me for a second or two but decided to let me through. “One of those days, huh?”

  “Shocker,” I answered, and she winked at me on my way past.

  “Don’t worry, love,” she chewed. “Things can only get better from here.” To that, I said nothing. I only listened as my soaked shoes squeaked on the dirty tile floor, and I imagined the trail of wet footprints stretching out behind me. It felt like those footprints stretched back forever.

  IF HER SOUL SHOULD LEAK

  I’m with wet feet.

  There’s a girl up ahead.

  She doesn’t move fast, but no matter how hard I run, I can’t catch up with her. My feet become heavier and more sodden with every step. I want to call out, but somehow I know she won’t hear.

  Even as other people pass by, I want to tell them. I want to say it—

  I love that girl.

  But I don’t.

  Eventually, she turns a corner and by the time I make it around, she’s gone.

  Defeated, I lean back to the cold, hard bricks, and I understand that there are many things I haven’t seen or felt or known.

  At this moment, there’s only one thing I know for sure.

  It’s about the girl, and it’s this.

  If her soul ever leaks, I want it to land on me.

  CHAPTER 16

  It rained nonstop for a week, and amongst all the water, an event occurred that had the potential to turn everything on its head.

  A tragedy.

  A debacle.

  And you guessed it, it involves Miffy, the wonder-dog, the little bastard, the ball of fluff who’s always managed to elbow his way into our lives.

  What happened was this:

  The poor little guy just up and died on us.

  It was Thursday afternoon and torrential rain poured itself down, battering the streets and rooftops. Someone was smashing their fist into our front door.

  “Hang on!” I yelled. I was glumly eating toast in the lounge room.

  I opened the door and there was a small balding man on his knees, completely drenched.

  “Keith?” I asked.

  He looked up at me. I dropped the toast. Rube was behind me now, asking, “What’s goin’ on?”

  K

  eith’s face was covered in sorrow. Dribbles of rain ambled down his face as he slowly picked himself up. He fixed his eyes on our kitchen window and said it, with pain rinsing through his voice.

  “Miffy.” He almost went to pieces again. “He’s dead. In the backyard.”

  Rube and I looked at each other.

  We ran out the back and clambered over the fence as the back door slammed behind us. Hfway over the fence, I saw it. There was a soggy ball of fluff lying motionless amongst the grass.

  No, I thought, as I landed on the other side. Disbelief held me down inside my footsteps, making my body heavy but my thoughts wild.

  Rube also hit the ground. His feet slapped down into the sodden grass, and where my footsteps ended, his began.

  I kneeled down in the pouring rain.

  The dog was dead.

  I touched him.

  The dog was dead.

  I turned to Rube, who was kneeling next to me. For the moment, our differences were cast aside. The dog was dead.

  We sat there a while, completely silent as the rain fell like needles onto our soaked bodies. The fluffy brown fur of Miffy the pain-in-the-arse Pomeranian was being dented by the rain, but it was still soft, and clammy. Both Rube and I stroked him. A few stray tears even sprang into my eyes. I recalled all the times we walked him at night with smoke climbing from our lungs and with laughter in our voices. I heard us complaining about him, ridiculing him, but deep down, caring for him. Even loving him, I thought.

  Rube’s face was devastated.

  “Poor little bastard,” he said. His voice clung strangely to his mouth.

  I wanted to say something but was completely speechless. I’d always known this day would come, but I didn’t imagine it like this. Not pouring rain. Not a pathetic frozen lump of fur, or a feeling as despondent as the one I felt at this exact moment.

  Rube picked him up and carried him under the shelter of Keith’s back veranda.

  The dog was dead.

  Even once the rain stopped, the feeling inside me didn’t subside. We kept patting him. Rube even apologized to him, probably for all the verbal abuse he’d leveled at him almost every time he saw him.

  “Sorry,” he said, and I had to check who he was talking to.

  Keith arrived after a while, but it was mainly Rube and me who stayed. For about an hour or so, we sat with him.

  “He’s getting stiff,” I pointed out at one stage.

  “I know,” Rube replied, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say a smirk didn’t cross our faces. It was the situation, I guess. We were cold, soaking wet, and hungry, and in a way, this was Miffy’s final revenge on us — guilt. Or was it a sacrifice, to bring us back together?

  Here we were, just about frozen in our neighbor’s backyard, patting a dog that was getting stiffer and stiffer by the minute, all because we’d consistently insulted him and then had the audacity to love him.

  “Well forget this,” Rube finally said. Hve Miffy a last pat and told the truth with a wavering voice. He said, “Miffy — you were undoubtedly a pathetic individual. I hated you, loved you, and wore a hood on my head so no one saw me with you. It’s been a pleasure.” He gave him a final pat, on the dog’s head. “Now, I’m leavin’,” he pointed out. “Just because you had the nerve to die under your clothesline in the middle of what was practically a hurricane, I’m not about to get pneumonia because of it. So good-bye — and let’s pray the next dog Keith and his wife decide to get is actually a dog and not a ferret, rat, or rodent in disguise. Good-bye.”

 
; He walked away, into the darkness of the backyard, but as he climbed the fence, he turned and gave Miffy one last look. One last good-bye. Then he was gone. For a moment, I realized that this was more than he’d given me when I sat on the porch that night after Octavia ran from me. He sure as hell didn’t look back at me. But then, to be fair, I wasn’t dead.

  I hung around a little while longer, and when Keith’s wife came home from work she was quite distressed about what I was beginning to call “The Miffy Incident.” She kept repeating one thing. “We’ll get him cremated. We’ve gotta get that dog cremated.” Apparently, Miffy was a gift from her dead mother, who insisted that all corpses, including her own, had to be burned. “Gotta get that dog cremated,” she went on, but rarely did she even look at him. Strangely enough, I had the feeling it was Rube and me who loved that dog the most — a dog whose ashes would most likely end up on top of the TV or video, or in the liquor cabinet for safekeeping.

  Soon, I said my last good-bye, running my hand over the stiff body and silky fur, still a little shocked by all of it.

  I went home and told everyone the news of the cremation. Needless to say, everyone was amazed, especially Rube. Or maybe amazed isn’t quite the right word for my brother’s reaction. Appalled was more like it.

  “Cremate him!?” he shouted. He couldn’t believe it. “Did you see that dog!? Did you see how bloody soggy he was!? They’ll have to dry him out first or else he’ll never even burn! He’ll just smolder! They’ll have to get the blow-dryer out!”