by Darren Groth
I fold my paper plate in half, scan for the nearest bin. “It’s okay, man. I’m the newbie. You guys don’t want to hear from me.”
“Rubbish, mate! You’re one of us now! You’re wearing our dope uniform. You ate your first Oz burger. You’ve already had a heart-to-heart with Ms. Mac. Tell us—what are you fired up for?”
I look at the group’s expectant faces.
They’re all watching, Munro.
Just like at DSS, when the ambulance arrived, when it left.
At the funeral.
Watching.
Thinking.
Don’t look at them.
I lower my gaze toward the folded plate balancing on my lap.
“I’m with Caro,” I say. “I’m looking forward to the end.”
On the train home after school, Rowan slouches in the seat across from me. As we pass through a tunnel, he flips his headphones from his ears to his neck, digs in his back pocket and hands me a folded paper. It’s an ad for a place called Liber8.
“One of those escape-room setups,” he says. “You get locked away and you’ve got an hour to use the clues and find a way out. Heard of ’em?”
I nod. “My friend Louis did one in Richmond. It was like an ancient Egyptian tomb or something.”
“Sweet. Apparently, this one has an asylum setup like they used to have here in Brissy. I’ve got some discount passes. Me and the gang are gonna go do it Saturday week. Keen?”
“Um, yeah. Sure.”
“Bewdy.”
Rowan takes back the paper and returns it to his pocket. His gaze is locked and loaded now, his grin crooked and twitchy, like a liquor-store clerk spying a fake ID.
“You and Caro hit it off, hey?”
“I guess so.”
“The two of you had a good chat on the way back from lunch.”
“Just sort of happened. I hope I wasn’t outta line.”
“Nope.”
“She wanted to know about Canada.”
“She wanted to know about you, man.”
Rowan removes his headphones, starts winding the cord around the earpieces. “I noticed when Caro asked you about your fam, you said you were an only child.”
I pause my game of Temple Run. “You caught that, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for not spilling the beans.”
“Hey, they’re your beans.” Rowan leans forward. “I know you’ve only just met ’em, but if you did want to tell the gang about your sister, I know they’d be real good about it.”
A lull creeps into the conversation. Snippets of chat from neighboring Sussex students find my ears. A hyped guy in the seat behind me is telling friends about a parkour shoot he’s planning. The pouty girls across the aisle are comparing “slags” on The Bachelor. A younger crew, probably eighth-graders, is discussing Splatoon strategy.
“Ms. Mac said your dad is a legend in Brisbane.”
Rowan runs a hand down his school tie. “Yeah, he is.”
“What did he do…if you’re cool with telling me?”
“It’s cool. You would’ve found out soon enough.” He shifts his butt back, puts his hands on his knees and brings his feet together. He looks like he’s posing for a family photo. “Dad swam out and saved a guy in the Logan River during the 2011 floods. Pulled him out of his car. He was given the Star of Courage and the Queensland Police Service Valour Award, which is the highest honor in the state for a cop.”
“I didn’t realize he was a policeman.”
“Retired in 2014. Permanent medical leave.”
I leave a good-sized space for Rowan to continue, but he slips back into his slouch. There are things I want to ask, impressions dying for a few details. I keep quiet.
I’m not the only one telling stories on my own terms.
For supper the Hydes take me to a local restaurant called Thai Me Kangaroo Down. In the early part of the night, the conversation is harmless. “What’s the latest back home? How is the Great White North surviving without you?” I pass on a few news items, things I have a vague awareness of since arriving in Oz: 2015 was the world’s hottest ever year, but it was only the eleventh-hottest in Canadian history. The cover art of Drake’s upcoming album, Views, couldn’t be any worse than his previous one, If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late, which looks like it was done by a chimpanzee on a dare. True to my prediction at the start of the season, the Canucks have no chance to make the NHL playoffs.
“It’s so different over there, isn’t it?” says Nina. “I mean, for a country that’s got a lot in common with us, there’s a heap of things that make it, I don’t know, foreign. Exotic, even.” She scoops rice into her bowl and returns the dish to the center of the table. “There’s something I wanted to ask you, Munro…if it’s okay.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why here? Why an exchange to Australia? Was there something that made you want to come? Or someone?”
I set my chopsticks aside and wipe my mouth with a napkin. Possible answers to her query wheel through my mind. The trip as a poor substitute for Evie’s aspirations? Nonstarter. A need to escape home for a while? Makes my parents sound like assholes—definitely not the case. A throwaway line about Down Under being a prime destination for every Canadian? It was Evie’s dream, not mine.
There is one other option, something of a last resort. I suspect it will shut down any similar questions in future. I look around the restaurant. Too bad it has to be said in public.
Maybe you should tell the Hydes everything this time.
Maybe you should leave me the fuck alone for five minutes.
“Evie had this teacher. Mr. Adams. From Australia—Brisbane actually. She loved being in his class. She learned a lot with him, so many things that would’ve helped her live a full and happy life. She was thankful for everything he did. And, on the day my sister died, so was I.”
A small gasp escapes Nina’s mouth. Geordie has begun to perspire. A grim-looking Rowan asks a passing waiter for a refill of water. I fill my lungs, empty them.
“Evie and Mr. Adams were walking toward the library. Coming out of English class, Evie had said she wasn’t feeling great, so Mr. Adams was holding her hand. He noticed the blue color of her lips was darker than usual. As they passed by the World War II honor board, Evie stumbled. Mister Adams said, Oopsie doodles and kept his grip, preventing a crash into the wall. He was about to suggest a visit to First Aid when Evie stumbled again. Second time was different. She was real heavy, as if invisible hands were pushing her to the ground. She dropped, and the weight was too much for him.”
A group of fifteen or so at the large table in the center of the restaurant starts singing “Happy Birthday.” The Hydes aren’t distracted, all three leaning slightly forward in their seats. Nina is teary, her eyes and the tip of her nose shaded red. Geordie mops his brow. Rowan has his arms folded tight, as if the temperature in the room has dropped several degrees. My throat is tight, but it doesn’t stop the stream of words.
“Evie hit a drinking fountain with her shoulder, twisted and ended up on her right side. The group of students walking behind her—twelfth-graders—almost tripped over her. Mr. Adams told them to stand back and got down on his knees. He turned Evie over. She looked like she was napping. She looked like she was dreaming.”
Wow, you know so much about what happened, Munro! It’s like you were looking over Mr. Adams’s shoulder!
Shut up.
“Mr. Adams worked on her for ten minutes. Chest compressions, occasional breaths. He didn’t stop, not when the crowd gathered, not when the shouting and the crying started, not when one of the school captains fainted. He didn’t stop when the first-aid officer arrived with a defibrillator. He kept going. He kept going when it was obvious he should give up. He still had his hands interlocked, ready for compression, when the paramedics took her away in the ambulance.”
I cough once, a raspy hack into the crook of my elbow. The story’s done. The stream of words is dry. Over at the bi
rthday table they’ve broken out the sparklers.
“Mr. Adams,” I conclude. “He’s the reason I wanted to come here.”
LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!
Amid the hand wringing and the tissue clutching, both Nina and Rowan zero in on Geordie. If he’s aware of their attention, he doesn’t let on. He pulls on the collar of his dress shirt and splits the silence.
“He did his best, Mr. Adams. That’s all you can do. I hope he understands that.” He presses on his forehead for a few seconds, then releases a breath, the sound like a hand pump inflating a bike tire. “Do you want to track him down, Munro? Is that what you’re hoping to do?”
I shake my head. “I’m not here to find Mr. Adams, sir, but I do want to find his spirit. I think I’ve found some of it already in this family.”
The flattery acts like a reboot. As per the first-day barbecue, the Hydes are immediately ready to resume the exchange they signed up for. Nina “goes for repairs” in the washroom and on the way back high-fives the birthday boy at the center table. Geordie teaches me a few verses of “Waltzing Matilda,” assuring me the jolly swagman wasn’t at all jolly but a very poor decision-maker. Rowan recounts the school day, rating my performance a nine out of ten, the loss of a mark due to my ill-advised wish for some Frank’s Red Hot sauce to put on my Oz burger. By the time dessert is done and the bill is paid, the Hyde computer is back to normal, the Maddux blue screen of death now gone.
Mom and Dad:
You’ll be pleased to know I survived week one at Sussex State High. It’s not as different as I’d hoped. I guess school is school, no matter what part of the world you’re in. It was an okay week though. I will go back again next week.
I met the counselor (guidance, not crisis). She gave me the lowdown on everything. They’re big on volunteering here—you have to do fifty hours in first semester of grade eleven. Not sure where I’ll go at this stage.
Rowan invited me to do one of those escape-room puzzles with his friends next weekend. He says the place has an old Brisbane asylum setup for one of the rooms. You and Dad are probably hoping I don’t get out. I don’t blame you.
How’s the foundation’s campaign shaping up? Did the film shoot go okay? I’ll keep an eye out for it on the website.
Ciao for now.
M
Ringing. A FaceTime call. It’s six in the morning, Vancouver time. Perennial morning person Lou is on the other end.
“Yo, Munrovia! Awesome to see you, bud! How’s the land of Silverchair?”
A pang of homesickness hits. Ah, Louis Erasmus and his stacks of retro grunge vinyls, all those tracks laid down before we were born. When I told him I was doing the exchange, he quoted one of the songs in his collection, something about me looking California and him feeling Minnesota. He held a hand to his chest as he said it. Much like he is doing now.
“Friendly,” I reply. “They like the accent.”
“Maybe they’re mistaking you for Ryan Gosling.”
“For sure. He’s got the same chicken legs and ponytail as me.”
We gab for ten minutes, me doing most of the gabbing. I update him on the weather (hot), the Hydes (cool), the first week of school (I survived).
“How are the beautiful Aussie honeys?” asks Lou.
An image of Caro sneaks into my head. More a silhouette than an image. Nighttime. Nuit.
“I’ve only been here seven days.”
“That’s plenty long enough for Ryan Gosling.” Lou presses forward. His Clearasil-ed face is huge on my phone display. “Come to think of it, I imagine you’re the honey over there. You’re the honey, and those Aussie girls are a bunch of bears sniffing around you.”
“You got quite the imagination, Lou.”
“Man, I wish I could get a bear sniffing around me.”
“Thanks for the visual.”
Lou smiles. “It’s real good to see you joking around, homes. Been a while.”
“True dat.”
Lou starts flicking a pen around his thumb. He looks away. “So I’m sorry to kill the buzz…I saw your mom and dad at Save-On Foods yesterday. They told me you’d made it over okay, said you were settling in with your host family. They looked pretty bummed about the whole thing, to tell you the truth.”
I rub my face and nod. “Yeah, the exchange was kind of a last resort to keep me in school. They only agreed because I thought it could work.”
“I think they regret letting you do it.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m making the effort to keep in touch though. I’m sending emails. And we’ll FaceTime soon.” I flex my hand, trying to shake off the pins and needles. “It’s only six months.”
“Six months,” repeats Lou. He rakes his hair, turning his ginger bed of coals into a bonfire. “You sure you’re coming back?”
“They don’t do extensions, bud.”
“No, I mean you sure you’re coming back?”
My head drops. “Is this about what happened in the gym storeroom again? I told you fifty times already, Lou—that was a joke!”
“Dude, you picked up a starter’s gun while Mr. Hofer wasn’t looking. Then you pointed it at your chest and said you’d like to put a hole in your heart, same as Evie.”
“I didn’t say it was a good joke.”
Lou pushes forward, crowding the screen. His grave face could double as a Halloween mask. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here for you, brother. Any hour of the day or night. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay!” It’s my turn to lean in. “So I need to talk now—about the Canucks. Or are you not finished going all Teen Helpline on my ass?”
You weren’t joking when you put that gun to your chest, Munro.
Yes I was.
No you weren’t.
It was a starter’s gun. It didn’t even have any caps in it.
But you thought about a real gun, didn’t you? You thought about how it would feel in your hand. You thought about how hard you would have to squeeze the trigger. You thought about how the bullet would feel going into your body, how much pain there would be. You thought about how it would be over in a second. You thought it might not be the worst thing that could happen. I saw all that. In your head.
In your heart.
THE ESCAPE ROOM
The Nike douchebag is right in my face. From the nose up, he’s blank. The whites of his eyes are dull. The pupils are pinholes. His blond bowl-cut hair is oily and limp. Below the nose, he’s fuming. Mouth twisted, teeth gritted. The huge, angry zit on his chin is begging for a mirror and a squeeze. His breath is a disgrace.
“Fuck off, you skinny, ponytailed dipshit,” he growls. “It wasn’t a foul.”
“What do you call this then, asshole?” I lift my forearm up to eye level. A big red welt runs from my watchband to my elbow.
Nike D-Bag’s lips peel away from his crooked teeth. “You don’t like playing hard? Then fuck off back to Iglooland and your figure-skating lessons.”
I hold his stoner gaze. The murmurs of the surrounding spectators go up a notch. I can’t make out what they’re saying.
The talk in my head, though, is loud and clear.
He has no idea who he’s dealing with.
I flex my right hand. Fingers scream. The back of my neck feels like it’s about to split in two. I didn’t go looking for a fight today. After waking up late and not being able to do my usual anti-Coyote exercises, I thought half an hour of pickup would be a decent substitute. I thought it would take the edge off.
A brawl on the basketball court—perfect way to finish week two. By my super-low standards, the first week at Sussex was a triumph. No meltdowns. No flashbacks. The Coyote was vocal but not totally intrusive. As the new outsider at school, I got a ton of stares and questions. I handled them all without puking pea soup or turning my head 360 degrees. It was a good, positive start. Entering week two, I was cautiously optimistic about t
he direction in which I was pointed. Who knew—maybe I could even get my hands on a compass.
I did not get my hands on a compass. I grabbed hold of a grenade. The pin came out Monday lunchtime with the girl lying on the grass next to the soccer pitch. She was flat on her back, one leg bent, one arm flung sideways. Friends stood around her, heads bowed. A dude with the collar turned up on his sports-uniform shirt was on his knees by her hip. One of the girl’s sneakers had come off; it was upside down on the painted sideline, lime-green laces untied, a few feet from the friend circle. The reality of the situation, I found out later, was pretty tame. The girl had tripped running backward and smacked her head on the ground. A few circling stars, a few there, there’s. Nothing serious.
Trickles of sweat poured down my back. Armies of goose bumps marched on my skin. My lungs tightened. My head throbbed. My heart may have even stopped for a few seconds, cruel prankster that it is. I told the gang I needed to sit down in the shade, that the heat was getting to me.
More problems piled on after the girl on the grass. On Tuesday I had a panic attack during the school fire drill and ended up in the first-aid room, hyperventilating into a paper bag. On Thursday I froze during a practice book talk in English. And now, here it is, the icing on top of my week-two relapse cake. Friday-morning recess and some bowl-cut, swoosh-festooned fuckwad of a trog mauls me on a drive to the hoop, all but destroying my arm. And when I call him out on it, he decides he wants to throw down.
My heart is a wrecking ball, swinging away in my chest. Ollie’s words itch like a mosquito bite: You are not your thoughts.
She’s right! You are your actions!
Punch this asshole’s lights out!
Nike D-Bag rolls a glob of spit around in his mouth and horks it onto the ground right next to my sneaker.
“What are you waiting for, dipshit?” he says. “You wanna go? Let’s fuckin’ go.”
Though my right hand hurts like a mother, I ball it into a fist and draw back.
YES!
“NO!”
My cranked hook stalls. Somebody’s holding it back.
