Munro vs. the Coyote

by Darren Groth

  Shut up, Coyote.

  A hush creeps in. Only the crackle of the barbecue and the fizz of the Jacuzzi’s open vents drift through the space. I have deflections ready—“That’s all I want to say…I’m not comfortable talking about it anymore… Leave me the hell alone”—but they remain holstered. Rowan has lifted his shades above his forehead and, with his free hand, is scooping bubbles from the surface of the water. Geordie wipes his hands on his Licensed to Grill apron and thuds down in the nearest plastic chair, the onions ignored for a moment. Nina covers her mouth, leans forward and lays a hand on my forearm. There’s a tiny tremble in her fingers.

  “No doubt your sister’s watching over you, Munro,” she says. “So we’d better take good care of you.”

  “Bloody oath,” adds Geordie.

  Rowan raises his Red Bull. “These two have done an all-right job with me so far.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

  With that the Hydes slip back into barbecue routine, my dark cloud no longer interrupting their fine weather. Nina tosses the pasta salad and unveils a tasty-looking pie called “Heavenly Tart,” which she says was named after her. Geordie starts swearing as he examines the state of the barramundi. Rowan puts his drink and sunglasses aside and announces he’s going to breathe underwater by sucking air through the Jacuzzi vents. He drops out of sight.

  These people really should demand a refund from YOLO.

  Jet lag sets in around 8:00 PM (2:00 AM Vancouver time). Through a series of yawns, I inform the Hydes that I’m heading for bed. Geordie and Rowan wave from the couch.

  “You got everything you need?” asks Nina.

  “I think so.”

  “Sorted out the air con in your room?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re thinking tomorrow we might go out for breakfast—there’s a great little café that has a ‘BrisVegas Mixed Grill’ on Saturdays. It’s walking distance from here. No pressure. I know you mentioned you do exercises in the morning.”

  I nod. “Fifty push-ups, a hundred sit-ups.”

  “Good on you! Okay, maybe we’ll see how you feel after that, hey?”

  “Sure. Hopefully I’ll be on Aussie time after a good night’s sleep.”

  “No worries.” She steps forward. I brace for a hug, but it doesn’t come. She reaches out, tugs playfully on my Canucks ballcap and smiles.

  “We’re really glad you’re here with us, Munro.”

  “Me too.”

  Nina fetches an extra pillow and wishes me a goodnight. Closing the door to my bedroom, I hear Rowan call out, “Don’t let the drop bears bite!”

  Pre-crash, I check Facebook. There are a ton of notifications, all of them for the status update I posted just before takeoff: Bye. One hundred and forty-three Likes, thirty-seven comments. Have lots of fun! Totally jealous. Why didn’t you take me with you?

  “No idea,” I murmur.

  I close Facebook, go to my mail and click Compose. I type in the subject heading Here Now.

  Hey, Mom and Dad:

  Arrived okay. Pickup went fine at Brisbane airport. I’m here with the Hydes—they’re cool. We had barbecued barramundi (an Aussie fish) for supper. It tasted great, although it was a bit burnt. The Hydes have promised to take good care of me. School starts Wednesday, day after Australia Day.

  Will write again soon.

  M

  I click Send and flick my right hand, trying to shake off the familiar pain bearing down on each and every knuckle.

  Are you ever going to tell your mom and dad about me, Munro? About how you talk to me all the time?

  You’re the one who always starts the talking, Coyote.

  You told the counselor about our little chats. But she doesn’t know everything.

  Ollie knows enough.

  Will you share it with anyone in Australia? Maybe the Hydes? Maybe someone at your new school?

  No.

  So you’re never going to tell anyone about how you always talk to me?

  No.

  How come, Munro?

  Because I won’t have to!

  How come?

  Because this is where it ends! Australia! This is where you get off! Okay? When I go back home, I won’t have the bad thoughts and the freeze-ups and the pain and the sadness. And I won’t have to fucking hear you anymore! I won’t!

  Climbing into bed, I look around the room that will be my crib until late August.

  An Aboriginal painting hangs above the corner desk. It’s some sort of lizard done in the sweet dot style I saw once on the Knowledge Network. Surf magazines of varying ages are fanned out on the lowest shelf of the TV stand. A tiny stuffed koala, no bigger than a tennis ball, clings to the stem of the pedestal fan.

  I count out five deep breaths and pull the thin sheet up to my neck.

  Do you really believe that, Munro? About this ending in Australia?

  Yes.

  So you want to forget your sister, the person you loved more than anyone in the world? You never want to think about Evie again?

  Of course not. I will never forget her, and I will always think about her. I just want to have the good thoughts. And I want to be in control of those thoughts. When, where. Which ones.

  You’re stuck because of her.

  I’m not stuck because of Evie. It’s not her fault.

  It’s my fault.

  SUSSEX HIGH

  I’ve seen my share of counselor offices this past year.

  This one belongs to Ms. MacGillivray, Sussex guidance officer. It doesn’t fit the usual mold. Yes, there are the motivational messages on posters and notepads and screen savers: Always set the trail, never follow the path; Success is a journey, not a destination; and Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude. But there’s also Believe in yourself, because the rest of us think you’re a tool and Everything in life is easier when you know the cheat codes. Then there’s the roller-derby merch and ads, framed Bris-Banshee T-shirts with signatures all over, a maroon helmet with a yellow star on the side. Several framed action pics feature Ms. MacGillivray herself in fluorescent orange skates, busting through a pack in camouflage getup, sitting in the penalty box with arms extended. According to the captions, her derby name is Bail Her Swift.

  “First day at Sussex!” she says, elbows resting on her desk. She has a big round yellow bruise on her right arm. “How are you finding it, Munro?”

  “Okay so far, Ms. MacGillivray.”

  “Call me Ms. Mac. Uniform looks great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Bit of a change from the fashion show back home, I imagine.”

  “I wasn’t much of a model anyway.”

  Ms. Mac smirks and says, “Nice!” I hear it as noise. In my short time in Australia, there’s been a lot of noise.

  “Subject selection all right?” she asks.

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Your situation is not that different to the other elevens. You want to take the best possible marks and credits into your final year of secondary school. Your year twelve will be back in Canada, of course, but the subjects are comparable and transferable. We can talk about that a bit more once you’re under way, hey?” She takes a sip from a fancy chrome travel mug. “The purpose of this little check-in is much more casual. I’d like to get to know you a tad.” She waits, allowing me to fully absorb the statement. I suppress a yawn. “You don’t mind?”

  “Give ’er.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just a Canadian expression. It means ‘go nuts.’”

  “Give ’er.” Ms. Mac writes it down on a Post-it. “So tell me, you’re from Vancouver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great city. Family?”

  “Mom and Dad. Married. To each other.”

  “Brothers, sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Just you?”

  “Just me.”

  Ms. Mac scribbles another note. I look away. A groundskeeper framed in the windo
w is fertilizing the main courtyard garden.

  She’ll find out about Evie, Munro.

  No she won’t.

  You’ve already told the Hydes. They’ll tell her.

  They don’t know squat. And they won’t say a word to her or anyone else. I made them promise yesterday, when we were at Kangaroo Point. Nina crossed her heart. Geordie laid his hand on “the Queensland Bible”—a biography of some rugby player called King Wally. Rowan said he’d be far too busy talking about himself.

  I think people here should know about her. They should know about what happened. You’re treating her like she never existed.

  No I’m not.

  “Munro. Hey, Munro! You with me?”

  “Um, yeah. I’m with you. Sorry about that.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Ms. Mac dips her head to the side, closes an eye, points a finger. She’s taking aim with her guidance gun. “You were off with the fairies there.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. This is a big change. Six months is a long time to be out of your comfort zone.”

  I suck in a breath, exhale. “For sure.”

  “You’re in good hands with the Hydes though. They’re top shelf. Did Rowan tell you his father’s a legend in this town?”

  “Uh, no. He didn’t.”

  “I’ll let him fill you in.”

  Ms. MacGillivray says getting to know me a tad has not yet reached a tad, but this is a good moment to inform me about all the “amazing cultural opportunities” at Sussex. Challenges and olympiads, workshops and camps. There is the Computational and Algorithmic Thinking Competition and something else called the Sleek Geeks Science Eureka Prize. The school has more bands than Coachella. The compulsory volunteering program kicks off next week—“a great chance to do some good for the community and yourself,” she assures me.

  “Now then,” Ms. Mac says. “The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. What is your er word?”

  “My er word?”

  “Yep. What is your er word, Munro?” She drums the desk, her short fingernails painted with yellow lightning bolts against a black background. Her smile widens with each passing second. The bruise on her arm is staring at me.

  “I’m sorry, Miss…I don’t…”

  Ms. Mac rises, moves away from the chair, gestures for me to follow. We end up in front of the picture of her in the penalty box, yelling at the unseen ref.

  “Every Sussex student should have a goal for the year—well, for you it’s six months—and in my experience it helps to attach an er word to it. Smarter, happier. Clearer.” She points at the picture. “Louder. Whatever er word you choose, it should always be in the back of your head, informing everything you do.” She holds up a hand. “Now don’t feel like you need to come up with your word right this minute. Pretty much every student takes some time to think about it, stew it over, before they come back to me and—”

  “I have it, Miss.”

  “What’s that, Munro?”

  “I have my er word.”

  Ms. Mac does a double take. “You’ve got it already? That might be a record.” She taps out a brief rhythm on her thigh. “Okay then, hit me.”

  Can I guess?

  No.

  Taller?

  What did I say?

  Super?

  Shut up!

  It can’t be brother.

  I flex my right hand.

  “Better is my word, Miss. I want to be better.”

  “Ready to meet the gang?” Rowan asks.

  “I guess,” I reply.

  We skirt the library and the art studio. I focus in on the things that distance this school from DSS. Gum trees. Shade tarpaulins. A tribute mural called Flood Heroes of 2011. A collection of highway signs that includes Canberra 1199 km and Uluru 2205 km and Broome 3320 km.

  “How’d it go with Ms. Mac?”

  “You mean Bail Her Swift?”

  Rowan turns, eyebrows high on his forehead. “She’s got a new derby name? She used to be Kim Karbashian.”

  “She wanted to get to know me a tad.”

  “Did she give you the old ‘What’s your er word’ speech?”

  “Yeah. You’ve heard it before?”

  “We all have.” Rowan says hi to a trio of girls. After they pass, I hear murmurings and laughter. One of them says “new talent.”

  “My er word for the year is legendary-er,” Rowan says.

  “Good word.”

  We arrive at the soccer field, site of a promised welcome-back lunch for senior students. Five food trucks are parked in a semicircle near the center spot. A few tables, chairs and benches are strewn around, but most of the students are sitting on the grass. We wander toward a group of four—one boy, three girls—occupying the front right corner of the sideline bleachers. They’re chowing down like it’s the only meal they’ll get all year.

  “You couldn’t wait five minutes for us?” asks Rowan, stealing a pierogi from one of the girls and barely escaping a hand slap.

  “We thought you might be bringing your own truck, Chef Row,” answers the boy, mouth full of brisket. “Although these are good. And I don’t think they’re runnin’ outta food anytime soon.”

  “They might if you’re here for another half hour,” one of the girls says.

  “Ha! This coming from Renee Hodges, champ of last year’s watermelon-eating contest at the fete!”

  “That was a comp—this is real life. Or the buffet, as you call it.”

  “Can you two get a room?”

  “Ew! Maevey! I’m tryin’ to eat here!”

  “Munro,” announces Rowan, “meet the gang. Renee, Caro, Digger and Maeve.”

  I had hoped “the gang” would resemble the stereotypical Aussies in Whistler—tanned skin, sun-bleached hair, flip-flops, Billabong logos everywhere. Sadly, they’re more like my friends in the valley than their mates on the mountain. Maeve reminds me of Darcy, with her selfie-stick limbs and stylish glasses. Renee, sitting cross-legged, both hands on the top knee, back straighter than a prairie highway…she’s totally Shawn. Septum ring and all. Digger has Louis’s peach fuzz and startled hair. I sigh. It was unfair to expect these strangers to be a postcard just so I could stomach school again. Actually, now that I think about it, Mr. Adams—Evie’s idol, the best Australian who ever lived—was bald and round and wore Denver Hayes jeans that sagged in the crotch. Not exactly a poster boy for the Aussie look.

  Caro, she’s a bit different. Nuit, one of a handful of words I remember from ninth-grade French, springs to mind. Night. She’s a shadowy figure. Not in a sinister, Madame Hydra sort of way—more just her appearance. She’s a collection of dark shades: skin, hair, black-leather wristbands, gray Converse shoes. Her expression, though, is just the opposite, all light and bright. Her eyes are big and wide. Her mouth looks ready to break out in a smile, even when filled with ramen noodles. The stud in her nose glints like shaved ice in the sun.

  Rowan hustles me over to the food trucks. After a scan of menus, I go for an Oz burger, which includes a fried egg and beetroot. We head back to the group, and I dig in, trying to give off the vibe of a YOLO video teen.

  “I can’t wait for The Addams Family,” says Maeve. “So cool we’re doing that for our musical.”

  “You going to audition?” asks Renee.

  “Hells yeah! I want to play Wednesday. If not her, then Morticia.”

  “As long as it’s not Fester.”

  “Word.”

  Digger looks toward Rowan and me. “You got any idea what they’re talking about?”

  “None,” replies Rowan, scrutinizing his samosa. “How about you, Renee? What have you got circled on the calendar?”

  “Hmm, it’s a toss-up between Vaccination Day and the Athletics Carnival.”

  “Ooh, yeah, tough choice.”

  “Too tough. And you, Mr. My Kitchen Rules? You counting the days until the Great State High School Cook-Off?”

  “Nope. I�
��m all about the ski trip in July.” Rowan spreads his feet, extends his arms and performs a series of gyrations, more hula dance than snowboard shred. “Your turn, Digs. What’s your thing this year? Lemme guess—driving your old man’s Prius to school?”

  Digger shakes his head. “Semiformal. I’m going to have the best date of anyone there.” He eyes each one of us in turn before making his announcement. “Jessica Mauboy.”

  A hush parachutes in. Rowan plays with his phone, then hands it to me. The screen displays Jessica Mauboy’s Wikipedia page. Twenty-six. Singer. Songwriter. Actress. Runner-up on Australian Idol. Ranked number sixteen on the Herald Sun’s list of the 100 greatest Australian singers of all time. The one credit I recognize is her starring role in The Sapphires. It was one of many Australian movies Evie tracked down on Netflix. She watched them all at least twice.

  “Jessica Mauboy, A-list celeb, and Corey ‘Digger’ Dulwich, BMX prodigy.” Rowan nods slowly, then with more speed. “Why the hell not?”

  “Why the hell not!” repeats Maeve.

  “I can see it happening,” says Caro.

  “I think you might be a bit too good for her, but whatever,” adds Renee.

  The group looks my way. I swallow my final chunk of Oz burger.

  “Try not to break her heart, eh?” I say.

  Digger bites his bottom lip. His Adam’s apple begins to bounce. He gets to his feet, descends the bleachers and jogs over to the food trucks.

  “He might be a while,” says Rowan. “You’re up, Caro.”

  “Mmm, hard act to follow.” Caro shifts into a lotus position on the bench. “What I am looking forward to the most in year eleven…I’d have to say the end.” A chorus of groans prompts her to elaborate. “I’m not dreading the year. Totally the opposite, in fact. This year is gonna be great, our best yet. I honestly believe that, and that’s why the end is the best part. We’ll be more grown up. We’ll have learned new things, made new friends.” She glances in my direction. “And we’ll be doing it together.”

  Maeve gives Caro’s forearm a squeeze. “That’s a beautiful speech, babe. You’re gonna be an awesome lawyer one day. Don’t you agree, Renee?”

  “Ha! She said doing it.”

  “There you go. Renee agrees too.”

  Rowan gestures toward me. “Lucky last, Munro.”