When I left Bill at the bus stop that day I vowed I would do two things. The first one was to ask Miss Tarango if she could make a replacement certificate. And the second thing? Well, my dad reckons that whatever you give out, you get back. ‘The bill always comes,’ he says. If you do good things, then good things come back. If you do lousy things, then they come back too. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but he believes it. He’s told me plenty of times, ‘Don’t ever think you’ve got away with anything or got something for nothing, because the bill always comes.’
So that was the other thing I vowed I would do that day–make sure that Barry Bagsley paid for every lousy thing he’d done. It was just a matter of figuring out how I was going to deliver the bill.
39.
THE THIN BROWN LINE
When I spoke to Miss Tarango about the new certificate she asked why Bill Kingsley hadn’t seen her about it himself. I told her that he was too embarrassed because he was always losing stuff. That seemed to do the trick. She promised to have the replacement ready for me in a few days. As I was heading out to lunch I had another delightful encounter with Barry Bagsley.
‘Hey, Le Turd, what’s up your bum?’
I’m not sure, but I think that was an example of what Miss Tarango would call a mixed metaphor.
‘Come on, Fish Dick, what’s up? You don’t look happy. You haven’t had a fight with the other debating girls, have you? You can tell me. I’m always here to help,’ Barry Bagsley said, putting on a syrupy voice.
Apparently the anger that had been churning around inside me since the previous afternoon was pretty obvious. I spoke before I really knew what I was saying. ‘That was a shitty thing to do.’
‘Such language,’ Barry Bagsley, said covering his ears. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘You know,’ I said, both angry and scared at the same time.
‘No, why don’t you tell me?’
I had started now and there was nothing I could do but go on. ‘What you did to Bill Kingsley–wrecking his certificate.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. I saw Wallace and Savage hanging around Bill’s locker and I saw you all in the computer room.’
‘Just doing some extra study, that’s all. I’d hate to think you were accusing us of some foul play, Le Turd. ‘Cause if you are,’ he said, stepping in closer, ‘you better have some proof or you could get yourself in serious trouble.’
‘Why can’t you just leave him alone?’
‘Maybe I don’t want to. Are you going to make me?’
And there it was. The question we’d all been waiting for. The question whose answer I knew, and Barry Bagsley knew, was ‘No’. I looked at the smug, arrogant face before me, a face without a shadow of a doubt that it had nothing in the world to fear. I hated it and I hated how it was making me feel. I wanted to blow it away.
‘What’s he ever done to you?’
‘Plenty. I have to look at all that blubber all the time and it puts me off my lunch. Besides, when he walks around I can’t do my schoolwork because the whole building shakes, and he’s always knocking my desk trying to squeeze all that lard down the aisle and his fat arse is always blocking out my view. So, Manure, I’ll say and do whatever I want-unless, of course, you think you can stop me.’ He glared hard at me for a few seconds then gave a snort. ‘Just as I thought. You haven’t got a prayer, Piss-whale. You have not got a prayer.’
As Barry Bagsley walked away it was as if he had taken a part of me with him, torn a limb from my body and left me there bleeding.
I thought the feeling would go away the following week after I slipped a brand new certificate into Bill Kingsley’s bag during afternoon Homeroom, but it didn’t. And it still didn’t go away the next day when Bill Kingsley thanked me and told me that his parents were having the certificate framed. I still felt as if a part of me was missing.
I tried to convince myself that everything was all right. After all, Bill Kingsley had his certificate back, so he was happy again, wasn’t he? But the truth was, the look I saw on Bill’s face that afternoon when he opened his desk hadn’t really gone away. It was still there like a deep and ugly bruise. And there was something else, as well. After our little discussion, Barry Bagsley was directing more taunts Bill Kingsley’s way, as if he was daring me to do something about it. Instead of helping Bill Kingsley, all I had done was make him a bigger target. It was as if I had thrown a lead weight to a drowning man.
I was still feeling bad the following week when Razza cornered me before school. ‘Ishmael, just the dude I wanted to see. You’re going to come to the debating final Wednesday night, aren’t you? Prindabel and Kingsley have piked out.’
Going to a debating final was the last thing I felt like doing. ‘Look … I might give it a miss, too.’
‘What are you talking about? Come on, you gotta go.’
‘I don’t know … I just …’
‘What’s the matter with you, anyway? You’ve been moping around like someone’s superglued your bum shut.’
First Barry Bagsley and now Razza. Why was it that whenever I looked a bit down everyone immediately assumed the problem originated from my backside? ‘It’s nothing. Forget it.’
‘It’s gotta be something. There are guys on death row chirpier than you.’
‘It’s just …’
‘Out with it, Leseur. You know that vee hef vays of may-kink you talk!’
There was no way Razza was going to be denied. I gave in and told him.
Razza took it all in without comment, then gave his considered opinion. ‘You’re right. You’re a menace to society. You should top yourself.’
‘Thanks, you’ve been a big help.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Razza said, before transforming into a voice-over man, ‘And after the break on Doctor Razz we’ll continue our talk with young Ishmael Leseur, the boy who takes everything too seriously’
‘Not everything’s a joke, you know, Razza. Bill’s not laughing.’
‘Look, you want to know the way I see it?’
‘Have I got a choice?’
‘Not really.’
‘Great, then. I’d love to know how you see it.’
‘OK. Bagsley’s a wanker, right?’
‘Right.’ A no-brainer, that one.
‘So who cares what a wanker says? You know what he calls me? Or-arse-i-hole. Or-arse-i-hole Zor-zit-to. Zit-arse for short. Has he cut me up? Am I wounded? Nuh, not a scratch. Now if my mum called me something like that … or you … that’s different. But we’re talking about Barry Bagsley here … and he’s a wanker, right?’
‘Right.’ Maybe there was some truth in the old ‘sticks and stones’ argument for someone like Razza. You couldn’t dent his confidence if you rammed it with a monster truck. I wondered if it was that easy for everyone.
‘But it’s not just the names. What he did to Bill Kingsley sucked.’
‘Yeah … yeah, you’re right … so what do you wanna do? You wanna give him back some of his own medicine? You know, trash his stuff or something?’
A tempting thought, but realistically it didn’t sound like a war we could win. ‘I don’t think that’s such a great idea.’
‘Well, there is another way,’ Razza said, quietly shifting his eyes from side to side. ‘We Zorzottos have connections, you know … back in Italy … Sicily … you get my drift? Just say the word, Ishmael, and your problem disappears, poof! Gone, forget about it. Or if that’s a bit drastic, I’m sure we’ve got some old horses’ heads lying around at home somewhere …’
‘Thanks, Razz, but I might save that for my last resort,’ I said, hoping that he was joking.
‘Well, if you won’t listen to reason, I guess all I can say is, if you need me, I’ll be there. I mean, if you have to take them on–Bagsley and that lot–I’ll back you up, OK? Now, don’t worry, I know what you’re thinking, that the Razzman is a lover, not a fighter. But don’t be fooled. When I
was a little kid I was brought up on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, so I know how to handle myself. I still have my Donatello costume at home if we need it. However, I should point out, that if it does come to serious fisticuffs, and my face is in danger of being marked in any way, I owe it to my legion of loyal female fans to get down on my knees and beg for mercy. Apart from that, I’ll be right there with you, one hundred per cent. You and me, Ishmael, scared shitless–the thin brown line.’
Razza just stood there, staring at me with that dopey know-it-all look on his face and bobbing his head up and down to some manic beat that only he could hear. At the debating semi-final Dad had called him ‘mad as a cut snake’. Maybe he was, but I knew one thing about Orazio Zorzotto. If I really did need him, he would be there–one hundred per cent.
‘What time does the final start?’
‘Seven. Mum’s dropping me off and I’m ringing her when it’s finished. We can pick you up at your place at six-thirty. You in?’
‘Razza, this has nothing to do with debating, has it? It’s all about that Preston girl, isn’t it–the blonde one?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ he said happily.
‘Then why do you need me? I thought the Razzman was a bit of a superhero with the chicks.’
‘Yeah, well, that might be a slight exaggeration. Besides, even superheroes need their sidekicks, you know, to sort of make us look good in comparison. You’d be wicked at that. It could be your special calling.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. So? Are you coming or what?’
Sidekick for the Razzman. There were worse jobs.
‘I’ll be there,’ I said, ‘one hundred per cent.’
40.
LIKE ICE CREAM IN A MICROWAVE
In the end I was kind of glad I went to the debating final. Of course I had to battle to contain Razza, who tended to be a mite over-vigorous in his support, particularly when a certain blonde-haired speaker was on. But all in all it was a pretty exciting night, and ended with Preston defeating Colmslie College in front of a big crowd.
Afterwards Razza dragged me up and we congratulated the Preston team on their victory. I tried to be a good sidekick by keeping quiet and letting Razza have the floor (not too difficult for me) and laughing at all his jokes. It seemed to work fairly well. After a while, when the rest of the team began to break away and mingle with the crowd, Razza still had his ‘hot blonde’ cornered. I took that as my cue to leave and headed out to a big courtyard area and the refreshments. The Year Eight and Year Ten finals had also just finished, and people were still spilling from nearby rooms. I grabbed an orange cordial and found myself a quiet spot to wait for Razza.
I wasn’t alone for long.
‘Ishmael?’
I turned in the direction of the voice.
‘Hi, look, you probably don’t remember me, but I’m Kelly Faulkner.’
It was Kelly Faulkner. I stared at her. Kelly Faulkner was talking to me. There was Kelly Faulkner and there was me. We were both standing there. Me and Kelly Faulkner. I stared at her. Kelly Faulkner was talking to me. It was Kelly Faulkner! Why was she looking at me like that?
‘We debated against each other?’ She frowned a little and gave a weak smile.
Oh god, she thought I didn’t remember her. And no wonder, I’d been staring at her like a moron. I tried to speak, but someone had put my brain in the blender and selected ‘puree’. ‘No … yeah … yes … no … we … I … I did … I do … we did … that’s right … you … yeah … that’s right … debate … yeah …’ No, I wasn’t quoting Shakespeare. This was all my own work. What I desperately needed was my own sidekick to help make me look good-a trained baboon, perhaps? No, not trained–too much competition.
‘I was going to catch you after the debate but … well … I didn’t get a chance.’
The horrible memories of that night came flooding back like sewage into a septic tank.
‘No … I … it … I …’ How could I put this? ‘I … was pretty bad.’ Have I introduced myself? I’m Ishmael Leseur, master of the understatement. You remember me, I’m the guy who said Jack the Ripper lacked people skills.
‘Don’t say that … it could have happened to anyone.’
‘You really think so?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Well … ‘ she said with a crooked grin, ‘maybe not that bit with the peg.’
‘No … it … I … ‘ But that was as far as I got. What possible explanation could make a clothes peg falling from your pants during a debate seem fine and dandy?
‘It looked like … it had a … face … drawn on it?’ Kelly Faulkner asked delicately, as if she was inquiring as to whether or not I suffered from piles.
I nodded. Perhaps a little trivia would help my case. ‘It was Bingo … from the Beatles.’ Yes, well, that explained everything. Of course! Who wouldn’t have had a peg figure of the drummer from a nineteen-sixties band shoved up their shorts during a debate? It stands to reason.
‘Oh … right,’ she said, with the look of someone who had just found herself alone in a lift with an axe murderer.
‘It got … caught up, somehow,’ I tried to explain, ‘… from our clothes line. It’s full of the world’s most influential people.’
‘Really?’ Make that an axe murderer with bad breath and BO.
‘They’re my sister’s. She makes them.’
‘Does she?’
‘Yes–she’s almost a genius.’
‘Really?’
That’s right, and her brother’s a complete cretin, otherwise he would shut his mouth and realise that he had been making a much better impression when he was just staring at Kelly Faulkner like a moron. I stared at Kelly Faulkner like a moron.
‘Well, anyway,’ she said, stung into action by the power of my moronic stare, ‘I think you did well, you know, stepping in at the last moment. I don’t think I could do that. I’d be hopeless.’
‘You couldn’t have been worse than me,’ I said. ‘I bet you wouldn’t have faint …’ Suddenly I had a vision of Razza’s face leering in at me and saying, It looked like you were very keen to keep a-breast of the opposition’s argument. Oh my god! How could I have forgotten about that? That’s probably why she was there–she was waiting for an apology, or maybe she’d come to inform me her father had a contract out on my life.
‘Look, about the debate … when I … fainted … passed out … they said … they told me … I didn’t know …’
Kelly Faulkner frowned and tilted her head on the side as she tried to make sense of the babbling crazy person in front of her.
‘… my hand … when I fell …’
Suddenly her beautiful ice-blue eyes widened and her cute mouth formed into a perfect ‘O’. ‘Oh … oh no … no, don’t … it’s …’
‘I just wanted you to know that I didn’t … I wasn’t … I …’
‘Don’t … no … you don’t …’
‘I just … when I … my hand just …’
‘No … no … really … don’t … really …’
‘I’m sorry … there’s no way … I wouldn’t … I couldn’t … I didn’t …’
‘No, I know … I know … forget it … don’t … it’s not …’
‘I just wanted you to know …’
‘No … I know, I know …’
‘I …’
‘I know’, Kelly Faulkner said firmly. Now she was staring at the ground and biting the side of her bottom lip. Her cheeks were dark pink blotches.
Something was trying to lever my ribs apart and escape from my chest.
She shook her head slightly. ‘Anyway, look … I really just came … to thank you.’
Thank me? What was she thanking me for, passing out?
‘You would have won anyway’
‘What?’ she said, lifting her head.
‘You would have beaten us anyway, even if we didn’t have to forfeit because of me.’
‘No … oh no … no. I wasn’t talking ab
out that. I wanted to thank you … for helping my brother.’
‘Your brother? But …’
‘My little brother Marty. Some boys were teasing him down by the creek one day. I think you helped him. It was you, wasn’t it?’
I felt like my head was stuck in the spin dryer. ‘That was your brother?’
‘Yes, and what you did was great.’
‘But I … I really only helped him get his hat thrown in the creek.’
‘I think you did a little bit more than that. Marty told me all about it. He knew you went to St Daniel’s but he couldn’t remember your proper name–thought it was something about mail. He told me the other boys kept calling you all sorts of things like Fish-whale … and something about a sewer?’
I guess the look on my face told her it was true.
‘Boys can be so charming,’ Kelly Faulkner said knowingly.
I wanted to tell her that some of us could be, we really could, if only we were given the chance.
‘Anyway, that night when I saw your name on the board, I thought it had to be you. I wanted to ask you about it after the debate, but … well … like I said, I didn’t get a chance. When I got home I told Marty, and he remembered the Ishmael part. I didn’t think there’d be too many Ishmaels around the place.’
‘No, it’s a pretty stupid name, all right.’
‘Stupid? I don’t think so. I wish I had a more interesting name. Kelly Faulkner’s pretty plain.’
‘No way … no it’s not. It’s perfect … it suits you.’
‘Don’t know about that,’ she said, shaking her head shyly.
‘Well, I’d give anything for an ordinary name. Something like John or Dave, anything but Ishmael. I hate it.’
‘Hate it? Why?’
I didn’t think that Kelly Faulkner was quite ready to hear all my theories about Ishmael Leseur’s Syndrome. ‘I don’t know, I just hate it. I wish my dad had never read Moby Dick’.
Don't Call Me Ishmael Page 15
