One Step

by Andrew Daddo

  So my phone was working, that was cool.

  No one had taken his lunch since Hamish and Lurch had been suspended, so the evidence was as good as in. I had a plan for Sampson’s lunch next week. We’d put a dog turd in it, or chillies or something rank, then kick back and watch them get into it.

  It was fun to talk about it; actually following through would be another thing.

  School had been so much better without Lurch and Hamish. It was like someone’d lifted a rancid blanket off the place and everyone was able to breathe again. They’d been slowly suffocating the school. I didn’t have to walk around corners and hope Hamish wasn’t there with a whack in the guts or a foot out to send me flying.

  The bus pulled up outside school and I managed to have my trombone for company for the whole ride. I watched my sister get off with her friend, hair bouncing about the place as if she was stepping into a shampoo commercial.

  She didn’t look back, she didn’t wave or smile or anything. Hayley never noticed me during the school day and she barely talked to me at home. It was weird how Mum and Dad had been so big on me looking out for her when she got to high school. She wasn’t the one who needed looking after.

  Madison was waiting at the door of the bus. Not for me, I thought, but she was. She’s, like, ‘Hey, Dylan.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, trying to get out of the way and see who she was actually waiting for.

  ‘So, um. I heard you’re going to Gracie’s on Saturday.’

  ‘Ah, yeah.’ This was a surprise. ‘But I’m not really allowed to talk about it because it’s a secret, right? But not from you because you know about it. Of course you do. So. Cool, yeah, can’t wait. Should be awesome,’ and in my head I’m going: Stop talking, stop talking before you say something stupid. So I stopped, right before I asked her to go with me.

  ‘Yeah, should be good,’ she said. It was a long yeah, like, yeeeeeeah. It’s like my mum’s yeeeeeeah, when she says yes to me doing something that she doesn’t really want me to do. ‘Yeeeeeah, you can go to Ryan’s place for dinner on a Sunday night.’ It’s usually followed with a ‘but’: ‘Yeeeeeeah, but, well, yeeeeah –’ Then, ‘no’.

  ‘You don’t think it’ll be good?’ I said, hoping the mild state of panic in my gut hadn’t made it to my voice.

  ‘Yeah, I think it’ll be good. It’ll be fun, I think. I guess, you know. It’s Gracie and Hannah and those guys, they’re all fun, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I guess.’

  ‘So, yeah,’ said Madison. ‘What time are you going?’

  I could see what was happening here and couldn’t believe it. She was basically asking me to ask her to the party. Like, go together.

  This was unprecedented. These were the unchartered waters our history teacher talked about when he was banging on about the ancient explorers. Great things come from great risk, as surely as failure befriends folly. It was on the board, he’d written it in permanent marker as a reminder that we ‘must take risks with our work’ instead of piss-farting around.

  ‘Dunno, what time’s it start?’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be the first to get there, but I don’t want to be the last, either, you know? Do you wanna, um – go together?’ Just like that, as the door to the bus closed behind me and the driver released the airbrakes with a mighty wheeeeesh, I let the words come out of my mouth.

  I don’t know who was more surprised.

  Madison took a step back from me or the bus or both and looked at her phone.

  ‘Um, well, like, lemme check,’ she said, sliding her finger across her screen and putting her pin in. ‘I just don’t know if I’m going yet because I don’t know who else is going and if her parents are going to be there. If they’re not, Mum and Dad are pretty weird about me going to those kinds of parties. They’re lame, but what am I supposed to do, right? I could say I’m going to Ashley’s but then Mum’d want to talk to her mum and that all gets pretty kooky unless Ashley’s older sister pretends to be her mum, so you know. It’s just a pain. I don’t want to say I’ll come with you in case I don’t go. You know? I’m not saying no, I’m just not saying yes. Are you sure you’re going to go?’

  Welcome to the world’s stupidest question, I thought. Am I sure I’m going to go? Wild horses and a naked supermodel screaming ‘take me, Dylan’ wouldn’t stop me from going to this party. It’s, like, my first real party. Of course I was going to go.

  ‘Well, I s’pose,’ I said. ‘Pretty sure.’

  ‘It’s just that –’ Madison faltered.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, I’ve heard. And if there’s no, you know –’ and she had her hands out as if she was going to catch something, but nothing ever came.

  ‘Yeah, well, no, not really,’ I said, feeling like I should know what she was talking about.

  ‘I’m just being stupid. You’re definitely going?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m gonna go. It sounds like fun. If it’s no good I’ll just leave, right? No biggie.’

  ‘Solid,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know if I’m going. Definitely. We could walk there together, like you said. That’d be good.’

  Better than good, I thought. It’d be the best.

  ‘See ya,’ she said.

  ‘Round like a rissole,’ I said back, instantly regretting the phrase that my grandfather had used every time we said goodbye. She probably wouldn’t even know what a rissole was.

  She flashed that smile at me. ‘With barbeque sauce, though. Not tomato.’

  If I wasn’t in love before, I think I was now – with two very different possibilities at the same time and maybe on the same night.

  Somehow I’d gone from being invisible to normal, or better than normal. In a matter of hours I’d be at a no-dickhead party with all the other non-dickheads.

  It must have been the story. It was ‘Me, Tree’. It was the way Mr Baird read it out to the class, and he’d been right about taking risks when writing. He’d said only the courageous were capable of doing it, and the rewards would be worth the effort, eventually. But I’d jumped straight to now. I was on a hot streak, pretty much. General shit-stirring aside – undies up my arse and being teased for having a micro penis and all that – things were definitely looking up.

  I got all caught up in myself and hadn’t even made it to my locker by the time the bell went. Ryan’s bike wasn’t in the rack, so maybe he wasn’t at school today. Maybe that’s why he’d stopped texting me. Whatevs, I’d have to let him know that if he was going to Gracie’s I probably wouldn’t be able to go with him because I’d be going with Madison.

  In English, when Mr Baird asked us about our poems, everyone sort of groaned. ‘Oh, come on, where are they? I know you’ve done them.’

  ‘Was it a rhyming poem, Mr Baird? Is that what it was meant to be?’

  Sully had his hand up but blurted before being asked, ‘I emailed it to you.’

  This was followed by a chorus of ‘so did I’s.

  Our teacher sounded annoyed. ‘Anyone do their homework, at all?’ He tried eyeballing us individually, frowning, nodding, shaking his head, raising his eyebrows: it was like he was practising all the different ways you could look pissed off.

  Kids started digging about in their bags, pretending to look for something. I’d done mine, but if no one else was actively offering their poems, I thought I’d hang back a bit, too. I got a nudge from Spanner next to me, who pointed to Gracie, three spots away.

  ‘Have you done yours?’ she mouthed in an overly dramatic way.

  I nodded.

  She watched Mr Baird, and when he turned, she mouthed, ‘Show us.’

  ‘It’s shit,’ I mouthed back, ‘. . . and not finished.’

  ‘Show me!’

  I scrunched my nose and played hard to get, but she wasn’t having any of it. ‘Hurry up,’ she urged, looking as if she was the only person with the right answer in a maths class and wanted to share it. ‘Give us a look!’

  So I pulled the page from my notebook, and
gave it to Spanner who passed it down the line to Gracie. She barely even read it, she just creased the page up a bit, ripped the bottom corner, then the top, then sheepishly put her hand up and said, ‘I’ve got mine, Mr Baird. But it’s messy, and not very good.’

  Oh my God, I thought, not really knowing how to feel. Like, it was pretty funny, what she did. She played me, for sure, but it was funny. I don’t know how she knew it wasn’t any good, when she hadn’t even read it, but then, she says that about everything she does.

  Gracie was probably protecting herself, because if it was good, Mr Baird would say it’s good, and if it was bad, she’d say she’d warned him. So really, she couldn’t lose, especially because it was my poem anyway. If it really sucked the big one, she’d just say it wasn’t hers in the first place and she was just mucking around.

  He put his hand out and she passed it to him. ‘Did you sleep on it? It’s ripped, it’s wrinkled, it’s . . .’

  ‘It’s done, Mr Baird. At least I did it.’ When Mr Baird looked down at my poem, she looked across at me and made some weird kind of clown face, a huge I’m-going-to-mess-you-up grin. Gracie’d been busy with the make-up this morning – she looked like she’d fallen face first into a bowl of flesh-toned flour.

  Mr Baird cleared his throat before starting. He sounded tentative but warmed up.

  I’m dry and desolate, like a teenage lie.

  Affection avoids me, no matter how I try.

  I struggle for air, for the surface to break.

  I yearn for a feeling that doesn’t ache.

  Mere moments from anguish, minutes from fear.

  There are so many voices, it’s impossible to hear,

  But when your dusky eyes find me, they lift me upright,

  I don’t fear sleep after seeing them, please kiss me good night.

  Good night, good night. I will miss you tonight.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said, when he’d finished. ‘That’s very, um. Hmmm. I’m not sure what it is, actually. It’s not like anything you’ve ever done before, Gracie.’ His voice was higher than usual. Mr Baird sounded like he was questioning himself as much as the girl grinning in front of him.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ she said. ‘I just thought I’d try this time.’

  ‘Is it about you? It’s a love story, right?’

  The class went ‘ooooooooooooooh,’ as if they were five-year-olds.

  ‘Nah, don’t be stupid. It’s not me, and do you reckon it’s a love story? I just made it up, you know? Read it again, Mr Baird.’ She was all sing-songy. ‘It sounds good when you read it, doesn’t it?’ Gracie looked around the classroom but avoided my eye.

  Mr Baird smiled. ‘Because it’s actually pretty good, I think. At first reading. Isn’t it? Who else liked it?’ Mr Baird scanned the room looking for hands. Most went up, the usual number, anyway. Some kids wouldn’t put their hands up if they were giving out gold coins, but that’s probably because they were worried about big sweat-balls under their arms. I know because it’s one of the things that makes me think twice about putting my hand up. There was a bit of nodding. ‘What’d you think, Dylan?’ said Mr Baird. ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘It’s orright,’ I said. ‘Pretty good.’ The last thing I wanted to do was sound too enthusiastic.

  ‘Is it a love poem, do you think, Dylan?’

  ‘I dunno about that, Mr Baird. All the words rhymed, so that was a plus. A bit sooky maybe, so it could be about love.’

  A love poem? Really? I had no idea if it was a love poem. It was more like a lonely poem, I thought. Hopeful, too. The kiss goodnight just seemed like a nice ending, because everyone wants a kiss goodnight, especially if they don’t normally get one. That doesn’t really make it a love poem, more a kiss goodnight poem. And was I going to pretend it wasn’t mine or not? Gracie seemed to be playing along in a way that it was definitely her poem, even though all the kids between us knew it wasn’t her work. In the back of my mind was the feeling that this assignment was part of the assessment, and Gracie was going to get my mark, so unless I came up with something quickly, I’d get squat.

  Mr Baird read it aloud a second time. ‘Yeah, it’s good. I think it had me on the first reading and now I want to know what it’s about. Okay, who else? Other poems, please. Where’s yours, Dylan?’

  ‘I tried to send mine, as well,’ I said. ‘But you must have a problem with your server, because it wouldn’t go through.’

  ‘But it’s on your laptop, right?’

  ‘Yep. Definitely,’ I said. ‘But that’s at home because it’s a band day today and I had to bring my trombone and it’s hard to carry both, and I’ve got training after school but we’re told to never take laptops to the pool because people flog stuff, so you know. I’ll email it tonight, I promise.’

  He shook his head while Gracie nodded hers. It was done. I was in, part of the conspiracy. Heads nodded up and down our row. If I’d known it was that easy to get along I might have done it ages ago.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gracie, as we were leaving the classroom. ‘Thank you properly Saturday, right?’

  ‘What time?’ I said, barely able to speak as the possibilities of her promise worked their way from my mind to other parts of my body.

  ‘About eight. Bring something to drink, right? And no talking, it’s a private party. You dig, my poet friend, looking for the kiss goodnight. I totally got that bit. Good one.’

  I dug, all right. Totally

  I spent the rest of the day in a funk. ‘Thank you properly Saturday, my poet friend looking for the kiss goodnight.’ Buzingah, Shazam, Wahoo and Holy shit! How good was this going to be?

  I decided not to bother with dive training after school.

  It was still warm, the school week was over and there were murmurings around school that people were either going to the pool or Jump Rock. Jump Rock would be cool. No need to give anyone a reason to remember the dick-less horror of me and my sluggos from the other day. And even though Mum hates Jump Rock, if she found out I could say it was a different kind of diving training. There’s stuff I could do off any level of Jump Rock that no one else could do. Front flips, back flips. It could be my making. In fact, it should be my making.

  For reasons I’ll never know, everything seemed to be lining up the right way for once. I could go home, dump my stuff, get my bike, go to Jump Rock and be awesome. It’d be fun, and fun’d be good. Ryan might come. I could ask Sampson, he’d be up for it. We’d laughed about caking his sandwich with moist turd over the weekend, making it look like Nutella. We might actually do it. If it worked, when Banning or Lurch came back from suspension they’d go straight to Sampson’s bag, steal his lunch, and eat shit. It could be awesome.

  I texted Ryan and Sampson together: Sampson was in, no message from Ryan. He must have actually been sick.

  I managed to get all my stuff onto the bus and was heading for the clear space up the back, near Madison and Ashley, when I heard my name from the front. ‘Dylan. Dylan?’

  It was Mum. My mum was on the bus up by the driver and she was singing out my name in that way that made me sound like I was deaf and four years old. ‘Dylan. Dyyyyyyyl-aaaan!’

  I wanted to dive under the seats.

  ‘Hi,’ I faltered, sounding like she was mental and I was humoring her.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said in an overly dramatic and probably funny way. ‘Do you want a lift to training? I was going past and I saw you with all that stuff and I just thought, there’s a boy that’d like a lift. My Dylan. What do you think?’

  Oh my God, please go. ‘No, I’m fine thanks, Mum,’ I said down the bus, taking a seat.

  ‘Dylan, don’t be silly. Of course you want a lift with your daggy old mum. Gracie Chilcott, is that you? Wow, you’ve grown up. And, ah, out. Wow, young lady, look at you! Come on, Dylan. I’ll give you a lift. Gracie, do you want one, too?’

  Gracie laughed while I died. ‘That’d be great, thanks. But I’m going to Ashley’s and she’s got stuff and I’m fine. Thanks, any
way.’

  ‘Mum. Really.’

  ‘Dylan,’ she said. ‘You’re coming with me. Come on. I’ve got two finger buns in the car and everything. I won’t take no for an answer!’

  The bus driver, who’d been watching alternately in his rear vision mirror and by turning around piped up. ‘Come on, mate, be a good boy for your mummy. I’ve got to get this bus moving.’

  Mum dropped me at training, even though I’d said I didn’t want to go. I was shitty, and she thought it was about the bus. She kept saying, ‘It was funny. The kids were laughing. Relax, Dylan. It was fine.’

  As a treat she said she’d pick me up after training, too. That blew a hole in my Legend of Jump Rock plan.

  How could she not know how humiliating she was?

  Saturday morning and up early, I walked to the pool, escaping the weight of our house before anyone woke up.

  Mum got all sulky last night, as if I’d wronged her. After a couple of wines she went from giving me the silent treatment to lecturing me. I countered with intense silent treatment and a bit of door slamming for good measure.

  It was good to get to the pool. I knocked out a few laps to clear my head and tried to get my mind onto the dives Coach Tran had planned for me. For her, every dive competition was the Olympics; for most of us, it was just Saturday sport and a bit of a bludge. The training was usually pretty good fun, and didn’t take too long. Best of all, the competitions didn’t suck up the whole day like cricket.

  The crowd was predictably small and void of my family members. They rarely came to diving.

  Dad didn’t get it. He’d said to me at least twice that he couldn’t understand how a son of his had ended up jumping off things looking like a bit of a poof when he could have been playing cricket. ‘Good blokes play cricket, mate. Fags and guys who can’t play cricket dive.’ He’d said it in his broadest Aussie ‘I’m joking but I’m not bloody joking at all, mate’ way.

  To Dad’s credit, he was able to justify why he never came. ‘Mate, the truth is, I’m usually flat out on Saturdays, anyway. If I could change my regular tee time to the afternoon, I would, but none of the other blokes in my four are up for it, so I’m buggered. You know?’ And then under his breath, ‘Like half of the dive team.’ He could barely talk about diving without mincing about and pouting.