by Shane Thamm
‘Don't you ever!’ Dad roars, spit flying. ‘Don't you ever undermine what I did in the army and what I've done for you!’
Knight Rider keeps yapping.
‘There are times, Jack, there are times I wish you—’ Then he trails off and mumbles the rest so I can't hear it. But I've got a good idea what he said.
‘That you let me go with Mum instead?’
‘That's not what I said.’
‘I think it might have been,’ I say. ‘Admit it, Dad. I'm not good enough for you. Even though you're the one who sits on your butt day after day, I'm the one who's not good enough.’
He points at me. His face is red; there are web-like veins in his cheeks. But with the table between us, I take a gamble and keep on going. ‘Look at you,’ I say, the words dripping from my tongue. ‘You're the failure.’
‘Come here!’ he yells, reaching across the table. I step back. He can't reach. His nostrils flare again and narrow with his breath. He plants both hands on the table, and glares at me, his jaw tense. His left eye twitches. Then he drops his head and stands back. He points at me once more. ‘So I'm not good enough, eh? You're the superior one.’ Slowly he turns and takes some pills from the cupboard. He throws them back without water. He clenches his teeth as he gulps. His Adam's apple bobs. He takes some more, watching me as he swallows.
I step out from behind the table. Slowly, I make my way past him, trying my best to hide my fear. But when I get to the hallway, I can hear his footsteps, feel his breath on my neck. My hair tingles.
‘It's not all about you, Jack!’ he roars.
I dive into my room and slam the door.
But later that evening, when I get up for dinner, all the lights are off. I find Dad lying on the couch in front of the TV, the screen dimmed so low there are only shadows. There's a glass of water on the floor and a box of migraine drugs. With Dad, it rarely works. He ends up spending the whole night in the lounge room. I know because I find him still there in the morning. Only difference is, there's a bucket in case he has to puke.
When I get breakfast, I deliberately make as much noise as I can. I rattle the cutlery in the drawer, bang bowls together in the sink.
I walk to school feeling like I've gained just a little bit of revenge—that whatever he makes me suffer, he'll get back in return. So I'm all smiles when I get to the school quadrangle and see Gez under the jacaranda talking to Lisa and her friend Catherine. He calls me over, and of course I scurry across. I stand opposite the girls—each of them in a uniform they've grown out of. Their skirts no longer reach their knees, but pause in a region that neither breaks nor complies with school rules. The stitching over their breasts is tight, threatening to tear apart. I stand in my baggy shirt, ignoring the permanent ache in my shoulders and try miserably to puff out my chest, but not too much to make my PE obvious. I feel great in their company. Gez smiles and laughs and talks with his hands, grows taller under the light of their attention. But they never look at me, don't even say ‘hi’. Before long, all I can do is try not to stare at their tits, and wonder if anyone would ever admire me in the same way they do Gez—the same way I admire him. And as I come to terms with the fact it will never happen, I see Sam sitting at a table nearby, resting her head on her hands, listening to her iPod. I drop my eyes to my chest. My shirt caves in as if being drawn into a vacuum. I resume my hunch and walk away.
‘I'll catch you later,’ Gez calls.
The girls say nothing.
Sam looks up at me and smiles. And for the rest of the day she's all I can think about.
When I go home I stop at her street and look at the houses. I'd like to know which one is hers. Then I take a deep breath and head for home. I'm not falling for her—that's what I tell myself—but like it or not, that's exactly what's happening. I'm falling for the fat girl none of the guys like and I don't want to admit it.
resistance is useless
I get off the bus on Saturday. My feet stick to the gutter like lead weights. Skyscrapers loom above me. What am I doing here? The reason makes me nervous and excited.
I breathe deep. I don't care about the diesel smoke, or the foul smell of a nearby bin. I stare across the street. A constant stream of shoppers and workers stride along the footpath, avoiding a dread-locked greenie who's handing out leaflets. But I look past them, down a passageway teeming with people.
I step onto the street. A guy cruising in a souped-up Subaru WRX blasts his horn then glares at me as he goes past with windows down and a beat throbbing. The greenie spots me and waits for me on the other side. He comes at me with an enormous smile. ‘We can all make a difference,’ he says, and holds a leaflet near my chest. Instinctively I swipe it away.
‘People like you are the problem!’ he yells.
I step inside.
Going some way further I stop and stare at a Gloria Jean's café. People walk around me as I watch Sam behind the counter. She takes orders from a long line of people and passes them to another girl who's at the espresso machine.
I'm not sure what I'm meant to do, whether I should line up and order or wait until she's free. Trying to appear casual, I take a seat at the table closest to the counter. I pull a surf mag from my bag, but I don't read it. I keep looking up to see if she notices me. She passes an order to the espresso girl then asks the next customer, ‘What would you like?’ But as the customer speaks, Sam sees me. ‘Jack!’ She almost yells it. ‘What are you doing here?’
The customer spins around. So does a middle-aged woman standing behind the counter with Sam.
I grin and wave. I approach the counter. ‘I had some high level meetings in town and thought I'd swing by.’
She giggles.
‘Sam!’ the middle-aged woman snaps.
Sam leans on the counter and says, ‘I finish at four.’
‘Four? That's two hours away.’
She shrugs. ‘You'll find something to do.’
So I wander the mall aimlessly. Apart from getting bored, I get nervous. Where should we go? What will we do? A movie? Go shopping? I do lap upon lap of city blocks, feeling more and more unsure about being here. I stare at a bus stop and think I should leave. I keep checking the time on my mobile. Two-thirty. Three. Will it ever come? I buy a Coke, I chew some gum. I play shoot-'em-up games in a video arcade. Finally four o'clock swings around and I head back to the café, my mouth as dry as toast.
Sam's waiting at the entrance of the passageway, already finished. ‘I'm supposed to catch the bus before it gets dark,’ she says. ‘One of Dad's rules.’ She crosses her arms. I try not to look at her cleavage. ‘So what are we doing?’ she asks.
I scratch my head. Two hours and I came up with nothing. I look at Sam, her dark hair, those huge brown eyes, anticipating something. I sweat. ‘We can walk by the river,’ I suggest.
‘The brown, murky waters of the Brisbane River?’
I nod, reluctantly.
She grins. ‘Wow. What a wild imagination you've got.’
‘Takes years of training,’ I say. ‘And lots of hot dates.’
‘Hot dates? I thought we were taking things slow.’
‘No! I mean—we are!’ I stop and swallow. What on earth was I saying? ‘I didn't mean it like that.’
‘Don't worry,’ she says, and prods my ribs with her finger. ‘I'm not about to jump your bones.’
I feel strangely deflated.
She looks down the street.
‘So what do you suggest we do?’ I ask.
Then she just heads off. ‘Coming?’ she calls over her shoulder.
I catch up. ‘Where are we going?’
Sam looks at me critically. ‘Not so experienced now, eh?’
There's not much I can say to that, so I don't say anything at all. I just keep pace with her as she makes for the mall. We follow it all the way down to the end, then turn right. We go past the Stamford Plaza and into the Botanic Gardens. We wander along the river bank, looking at the yachts.
‘Who's wild imagina
tion are we following now?’ I ask.
‘I was trying to think of what we should do my whole shift,’ she says. ‘I didn't come up with anything either.’
We laugh and sit by the river, in the long cool shadows of the trees. We hang our feet over a retaining wall and watch the city ferries go by.
‘I saw you at school the other day, talking to Lisa and Gez,’ she says.
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘You looked bored. You should've come over and sat with me.’
I grin. ‘I couldn't do that.’
‘Why not?’
I shrug. ‘I dunno. It just doesn't seem right.’
‘Seem right?’ she says, turning to me. ‘So you're avoiding me?’
‘No.’
‘Then what's not right about it?’
Jeez, so much for a chilled-out afternoon.
She picks at the lichen on the rocks. ‘Sometimes I feel like you're avoiding me.’
And I thought I had been playing the role of subtle avoidance quite well. The odd wave. The occasional chat when she's on her own, when no one's looking. ‘I'm just not sure what to say to you,’ I say. I don't tell her I keep clear because of the guys.
‘Maybe you don't like me,’ she says. ‘Except when it's convenient for you.’
I breathe out, slowly, obviously. ‘I'm not used to being friends with girls,’ I say. ‘It's come as a bit of a surprise.’
She's silent for a while and I think, jeez, that really worked, so I go on. ‘I'm not good with surprises.’
Then she faces me, her eyebrows furrowed, critical. ‘Some people like surprises,’ she says. ‘They like to be swept away.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask, annoyed by the criticism in her voice.
She shakes her head and throws a pebble into the water.
Then it dawns on me. ‘Are you saying you swept me away? One walk home and I'm falling for you? Get real.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’ Her huge eyes penetrate, as if seeking the truth I'm not game to say.
I gasp and stutter, but stay on the defensive. ‘I'm no pushover, you know.’
And then she laughs. A full-throated laugh. ‘Really?’ she says. ‘Well that's a shame. Because you're such a fine catch.’
‘Hey!’ I snap.
She lies back on the grass, rolls over and looks at me. ‘Jack, I'm just asking you to talk to me at school. That's all. It's nothing to get defensive about.’
I lie down next to her. All of a sudden I like those eyes, that dark hair. ‘But you've got it all wrong,’ I tell her.
She props herself up on an elbow. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘I am a good catch.’ I put one hand on my chest. ‘I'm the finest catch St Phil's has to offer.’
She rolls onto her back and laughs at the sky. ‘What rubbish!’
‘I am!’
Then she says sarcastically, ‘And there's such a fine selection on offer.’
I edge closer. ‘Well, how many St Phil's guys have come into town to see you? That's gotta count for something.’
She sighs, then stands dramatically and wipes the grass from her clothes. ‘I guess it just means I have to settle for second best,’ she says, matter-of-factly.
I get to my knees. ‘That's not fair!’
She's grinning. She nods her head towards the path. ‘I've got a bus to catch,’ she says. ‘It's five o'clock already.’ Then she starts off.
I don't follow right away. Instead, I watch her walk to the path. She might be short, kinda round, and hated by half the guys at school, but there's something about her. She's different. She's not like Lisa Patrick. She's more real, a get-what-you-take kind of person. She's the kind of friend I need right now.
‘Are you coming, or are you just going to lie there?’ she calls.
‘I thought I might stay and think about my greatness.’
‘Oh, shut up!’
But of course I get to my feet and catch up to her.
At the bus stop she asks, ‘Do you really want to join the army?’
I cringe at the question. The bus pulls in and we get on.
‘Jack?’
‘Not really. Dad wants me to.’
‘Then tell him no. Tell him you won't do it.’
‘It's not that easy.’
‘How's that?’ she asks as the bus pulls out.
‘His life's pretty miserable,’ I tell her. ‘Has been for years.’ I tell her about his migraines, about him bringing me up on his own.
‘And by you doing what he wants you'll make things better for him?’
I shrug. ‘It's not that simple,’ I say. ‘But maybe I will. Who knows?’
‘That's a big sacrifice.’
As we cross the river I look out at the sun getting low over Mt Coot-tha. ‘It's not like I'll be in the army forever.’
‘Then how long?’
I shrug. The bus enters the concrete passageway near South Bank. I can see Sam's reflection on the glass. She's looking at me.
‘You haven't thought about how long?’ Her voice is higher than usual. She sounds confused.
I look at my hands and breathe out slowly. ‘I don't know. A few years.’
‘And you think that would be enough?’
I run a hand through my hair. ‘I've no idea how many would be enough.’
For the rest of the way she leans gently against me. No head on my shoulder, or hand on my lap, just our sides against each other. I cross one arm over my chest, but really, I want to hold her.
Nearing home, the bus goes past our school and I think of what people would say if they saw me and Sam together like this. And I wonder if she really is easy for sex like everyone says. Maybe this is just some game of hers, leading me along. I stir in my seat, as if trying to get comfortable. Our bodies separate.
When the bus pulls up near her street she says, ‘You'll have to make your own decision sometime. Show some balls.’
Ouch. That hurts.
Then she gets up without a goodbye, as if to make sure her point sinks in. But just before she gets off she yells down the aisle, ‘Tell him to shove it!’
The bus pulls out. She waves, grinning hysterically.
Late that night Dad's condition gets worse. It's a bit past midnight when I wake to the sound of him hurling his guts up into the loo. I roll over and fall back asleep, but it's not long before he's at it again. I get up to check on him and find him kneeling at the toilet, his hands on the rim.
‘You okay?’ I ask, knowing how stupid it sounds, but what else is there to say?
He turns to me. His face is so pale and loose it looks like it's about to peel away.
I ask, ‘Do you want a glass of water? Mylanta?’
‘Mylanta,’ he whispers and sits against the wall.
There's a packet of Panadeine Forte on the kitchen bench, four pills popped. No wonder he's hurling—if it's not the migraine, it's too many pills on an empty stomach. I fill a glass from the tap and take him the bottle of Mylanta. He takes a swig from the bottle then sips the water before hanging his face over the toilet again.
I look at him crouched on the tiles in his undies. It's a disgusting sight: his skin's pale, his gut hangs out, there's hair in his plumber's crack. He gulps and dry retches then sits back, looking utterly defeated. He leans forward and spits into the bowl again.
I go back to bed, but I can't sleep. I think about what Sam said. She's right; I have to stop buckling to his wishes. Restless, I get up and go into the kitchen. I take some milk from the fridge and drink from the bottle. Then I head into the lounge room and am confronted with something I've seen dozens of times before. Dad's sitting in the flickering light of the TV, the sound off. He has taken the photo of himself off the wall. The one of him training with the assault rifle. He strokes the glass and looks up. I duck back behind the wall and tiptoe off to bed.
bluebird night out
I've been working hard on my chest this week. I've rigged a chin-up bar under the awning out the back and ke
ep doing push-ups in my room. I keep checking in the mirror to see if I've grown. I flex my biceps, tense my pecs, but nothing can distract me from the crevice in my chest. I try to expand it by breathing deep and holding my breath, almost to the point of passing out. Each morning I roll up a towel and lay my spine over it. Arms spread, I think of Sam as I stare at the ceiling. What would she think?
We're already three games into the footy comp, but Dad's only coached the first two. He missed a couple of training sessions because of his migraines, and now that he's made it back, he's drugged to the hilt. He walks about the oval in a daze, can hardly give constructive feedback to anyone. He has a word to Maloney about playing me on the wing. Maloney pulls me aside afterwards.
‘Did you tell him you played on the wing?’
I nod. The truth was Maloney had me on the bench.
‘What did you do that for?’
‘It keeps him happy.’
‘It hasn't made me happy,’ he says.
I'm stoked that I'm killing two birds with one stone.
Gez says to me before the practice match, ‘What's got into you? You're all bubbly.’
I shrug. ‘Dunno,’ I say, but I do. It's Sam. How embarrassing. I'm all chuffed because I think Samantha Dean likes me.
On the drive home after training Dad says, ‘I talked to Maloney about playing you at full-back again. He's not happy about it, but I told him you deserve another chance, considering how well you've been playing on the wing and all.’
I turn the corner, feeling guilty.
‘Well don't thank me all at once,’ he says, but goes on before I have a chance to reply. ‘He's the worst coach, you know. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I gotta tell someone who'll understand. You know how he put you on the wing the other week?’ He turns to me. ‘He said he can't even remember how you played, like you weren't even there. And he's supposed to have been coaching the team. Right joke that is.’
‘No wonder they got you to coach,’ I say.
‘That's right.’ He chuckles.
‘All the boys reckon Maloney's useless,’ I say, glancing at him.
He's resting an arm out the window, his chest driven forward. ‘They're spot on.’ But then he goes quiet and I can hear him picking at the deteriorating plastic on the door. ‘Do the boys say anything else?’
