I nod toward my father’s newspaper.
“What’s news? Anything good?”
“Same old, my boy.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, sipping my coffee and looking away.
“You all right, Charlie?” My dad shifts tone. He reaches across and feels my forehead, and runs his thumb over my cowlick. I want to tell him everything. I want him to wrap me in his arms and reassure me.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”
“Well, if you’re not eating, young man,” my mother says, “I suggest you go visit Jeffrey. He’s been over five times already this morning with a bee in his bonnet. I told him to go in and wake you up, but he just trotted back home and said he’d try again later. He’s too polite, that boy.”
Shit. The Test. I completely forgot. Little wonder he didn’t want to come inside. He wasn’t being polite, he just didn’t want to miss a delivery. Right now, Jeffrey will be huddled beside the radio, intently poised, as though it were spilling state secrets. I’ve never understood it. It’s not like the same thing doesn’t happen over and over. Cricket is the most repetitive enterprise in history. But Jeffrey will listen to the words—Wide outside off stump, Lawry shoulders arms—with as much glee and intensity for the eightieth time as the first.
I don’t want the rest of this coffee, but it’s not worth the wrath of my mother to waste it. I quaff it quickly, wincing at the bitter bits at the bottom. It burns my innards, but it’s gone. I rinse its silt at the sink and exit stage left, offering a casual farewell.
***
Jeffrey lives across the road, four houses up. Any further away and I doubt I would make it. This has to be the hottest day in history. Either the earth is being devoured by the sun or the sun is hurtling toward us like an enormous meteor. Our front lawn crunches beneath my feet. Down our street, I can see strange undulations of heat. I arrive at Jeffrey’s door feeling like I’ve endured a marathon, and I knock quickly, surveying the veranda. I greet Jeffrey’s grumpy tabby, Chairman Meow, who ignores me and crouches beneath the white cage of Jeffrey’s affable parakeet, Chairman Wow.
Mrs. Lu answers.
“Hello, Chully!” she says, and then her broad smile disappears and she looks suddenly crestfallen. She shakes her head solemnly. “It’s no good. The test cricket is raining. Come in, come in.”
Jeffrey bursts out of the living room. He is wearing all white.
“Where have you been? You’re an idiot.”
“I don’t know. Sleeping. Is it raining?”
Mrs. Lu suddenly laughs again. “No, Chully, it’s very hot!” She squeezes my arm, nods once, and walks away, giggling.
“What does that even mean?” says Jeffrey, watching her walk away.
I follow Jeffrey into the living room. He has the radio turned right up.
I take a seat on their couch. Jeffrey perches on a piano stool he has dragged over to the radio. It’s much cooler in here. Jeffrey recounts the day’s action with unnecessary attention to detail. He’s clearly disappointed. Doug Walters is on debut, it’s the first Ashes Test, and it seems it’s going to be washed out for the rest of the afternoon. The notion of rain seems incredibly inviting to me right now. A huge cold shower, harsh and bracing.
Mrs. Lu swathes in with a plate of sweets and fruit, and two tall glasses of icy lychee juice. I thank her, and Jeffrey dives at the tray. She turns and shrieks something stern at Jeffrey in Vietnamese.
Jeffrey, his mouth still full, says, “It’s not impolite! It’s only Chuck! He doesn’t care!”
But her fiery barrage continues as she walks away. Jeffrey grins. He takes up the tray and bows.
“Please, O Holy Omboooodsman, take first from our tray of fine delicacies, aye beseeeeech you.”
“That’s better,” I say.
I take something round and bright orange. It is delicious.
“What is this? It’s amazing.”
Jeffrey squints. “That is Bang Chow Pow.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Incorrect. That’s a fact. Don’t be ignorant.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re a communist.”
Jeffrey spills his drink as he gestures. He mops it up with a cushion.
“Here’s one: would you rather die of the heat or the cold?” he asks.
I lean back and put my feet up.
“Do you mean immediately burned or frozen, or steady exposure?”
He thumbs his jaw. “Steady exposure.”
“Well, I don’t know. Neither.”
“But you have to choose one.”
“Why?”
“Chuck! Are you retarded? It’s hypothetical.”
“But when am I ever going to have to make that choice?”
“Well, let’s just say you have to.”
“Why would I have to?”
“Because they’ve got a hypothetical gun to your head.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
Jeffrey is smiling. He’s perched restlessly on the edge of the piano stool.
“I don’t know. The Russians.”
“Why do the Russians want me dead?”
“Because they’re evil and hypothetical! And you’re a spy. You’ve been selling their secrets.”
“To who?”
“Ze Jarmans.”
“I see. Well, I’d choose to be hypothetically shot in the head, then. I mean, if I’m going to die anyway, why hypothetically suffer?”
“Okay. One: you’re an idiot. Two: you’re making this too hard.” Jeffrey ponders for a bit. “Okay. They’ve got your parents too.”
“Jeffrey, you’re just sweetening the deal.”
We both laugh. I take another orange ball. Then Jeffrey clicks his fingers and looks at me slyly, still smiling.
“Okay, okay. What if they’ve got, say, Eliza Wishart too. Eh, Chuck? What do you do then? You can save her by choosing one or the other.”
The mention of her name rattles me. It makes me realize how much I’d pushed Laura aside since I got here. I set down the sweet. I feel like throwing up.
I tell Jeffrey to piss off. Of course, I let this slip just as Mrs. Lu strides back in with more food. I freeze, eyes wide, expecting to be dressed down, but she appears not to hear. Jeffrey is quietly asphyxiating at my expense.
“Here, Chully,” she says cheerfully, and refills my drink. She exits as swiftly as she entered. I watch her go, wondering how I have skirted a certain death.
“It’s okay, she doesn’t know swearwords,” Jeffrey says when he’s recovered himself. “You should have seen your face!”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Listen to this.” Jeffrey yells toward the kitchen: “Ma! Chuck really fucking loves these orange balls! He really fucking loves balls!”
There is a loaded pause as we both wait for a response.
“Okay! That’s good! Thank you, Chully!” she calls down the hall.
We have to bite our fists to stop from shrieking.
I lounge back. But then I suddenly remember again, and that fist of queasiness rocks me forward. It’s a roller coaster in my belly. I wish I could tell Jeffrey everything. I really do. I wonder what it is about holding in a secret that hurts so much. I mean, telling Jeffrey doesn’t change anything, it doesn’t take anything back. It’s just information. It doesn’t dredge that poor girl from the depths of the dam, doesn’t breathe her back to life. So why do I feel like I need to blurt it all out? Is it just the fact of telling him? Loosening the screws, getting the horrible mess out of my body? Maybe if I spill it over, it’s a little less of the burden that I have to carry. By that logic, if I told everyone in Corrigan, or Australia, or The World, if I gave everyone a share, it might become bearable.
But I can’t anyway. It’s locked in me tight. It’s not that I don’t trust Jeffrey, it’s that Jasper Jones trusts me. It’s an unusual contortion of my loyalties. I know I can’t say a thing.
Jeffrey suddenly clicks his fingers and points at me.
> “Okay. Got one.” He spreads his hands, showing me his palms like a mime, the same way he always does when he’s telling a joke. “Okay. Why are pirates called pirates?”
I look at him blankly.
“Because they yarrrr!”
He dies laughing. He almost chokes. He has to stop to cough.
“Jeffrey, that is the worst ever. And I mean that. The worst.”
Oh, come on! Chuck! You’re being harrrrsh!”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Really. Stop. It’s bad.”
“No way! You can keep that. Tell it to Eliza Wisharrrrt!”
“Jeffrey, I’m going to hold a non-hypothetical gun to your head. If I have to kill you, I will.”
“Pffft! You couldn’t do it. Not to this handsome face.”
***
We stay in Jeffrey’s living room until the broadcast ends. Despite the fact that there is no chance of play continuing for the day, Jeffrey doesn’t want to run the risk of missing any developments.
Jeffrey soundly defeats me at Ludo, and then I destroy him at Scrabble. He shrugs and says: “My ingrish. Is no goot.”
We get restless. Jeffrey suggests we head to the nets in town. I’d much prefer to stay inside and arse about in Jeffrey’s living room, but I know there’s no chance of that. Jeffrey is ushering me out the door like we’re fleeing a fire. He yells behind him: “Ma! We’re going into town to play some fucking cricket!”
We pause.
“Jeffrey! Wait! Okay? Wait!” his mother yells sternly. I detect a moment of panic on Jeffrey’s face when Mrs. Lu charges down the hall. But she holds out two cold flasks of water and smiles as she shuts the door.
“You should have seen your face!” I say.
He laughs as we run out into the street.
***
Jeffrey tosses a polished red ball in his hands as we make our way into town, snapping it with his wrists and his fingers, fizzing it into the air. The seam is a whirring blur.
I don’t especially dislike cricket, but it requires some special kind of pathology to give it the kind of devotion that Jeffrey shows. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m rubbish at it. I am really bad. Of course, being born without courage has proved to be a significant hindrance, but mostly it’s the fact that my limbs have never acted in accordance to what I intend for them. It’s like they’re being controlled by some vindictive puppet master.
But Jeffrey Lu is uncanny. His skills are so impressive, I’m not even envious. The things he can do with that red rock in his hands are amazing. Really. And his batting is incredible, he’s so compact and powerful. Despite being roughly the size of a garden gnome, Jeffrey can manage to be intimidating. He’s not so affable with the pads on and the bat in hand. He’s like an animal, aggressive and focused. Or some kind of sword-wielding hero. You can’t put the ball anywhere when his eye is in.
Granted, I’m not much competition for Jeffrey, but I think if he ever gets the chance to play a real game, he’s going to be brilliant.
We walk slowly, favoring the shade. Although it’s late afternoon, it is still stupidly sultry. It’s a dry and inert heat that seems to press from all sides. Jeffrey is dwarfed by his gear bag.
“See, I was thinking,” he says, catching the ball and thrusting a finger into the air. “The thing about Spider-man is that he is completely useless outside of New York City.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, okay, par exemplarrrrr: if he were to fight crime here in Corrigan, he’d be rubbish. There’s nothing for him to swing between. He needs a …”
“An urban environment?”
“Exactly, sir. I mean, who is Spider-man going to save in the Gobi Desert? Or Antarctica? He’s rooted.”
“True,” I say. “But he still has sweet powers.”
“I understand that, Chuck, but they are rendered virtually ineffective by the environment. He’s immobile. All you need is a camel or a husky sled and you can outrun him. He’s nothing. And he’s sticking out like a dog’s bollocks. Suddenly he’s just a weird-looking guy with snot shooting out of his wrists.”
I think about it.
“Fair point,” I say.
“Of course it is. And that’s why Superman is the best superhero,” Jeffrey says, and tosses the ball high in the air. “He’s all-terrain. He can cover the globe in a second. He’s the greatest. Simple.”
“I disagree.”
Jeffrey drops his ball.
“What? Excuse me? You what? How could you possibly disagree with that? You’re an idiot.”
“Think about it, you little bigot. Superman is boring. He’s too accomplished. There’s nothing interesting about him. There’s no story. He’s too good. It’s not even an effort for him to apprehend criminals or save children from fires. In the end, they had to invent some stupid arbitrary green mineral to give him a weakness. Whatever. It’s boring. You know it.”
Jeffrey squints at the sun and groans with his mouth open.
“Chuck, you’re a fucking communist. Firstly, he does have other weaknesses.”
“What? Bullshit. Name one.”
“Love, okay, dickhead. Obviously. His family. Lois Lane. They can be used against him.”
“I don’t care for Lois,” I interject.
“Because you’re queer?”
“I’m not queer. Idiot.”
“Secondly, the fact that he doesn’t interest you doesn’t mean he isn’t the best. You’re not the king of opinion. It just means you’re foolish and narrow-minded.”
“No. It means you have no taste. And no idea what you’re talking about.”
Jeffrey laughs. “Well, who’s better, then?” he asks.
“Batman. Easy. The greatest superhero of them all.”
“Batman?” Jeffrey stops walking, and looks around as though he’s appealing to a jury. “You are queer!”
“I’m telling you, Jeffrey. The greatest.”
“Chuck, you’re an idiot! That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Batman isn’t even a superhero!”
It’s my turn to stop.
“Shut your mouth!” I slap the ball out of his hands. It skips down the street.
“It’s true! He’s not a superhero!”
“Jeffrey, you’re an idiot!”
“You’re an idiot! Batman doesn’t have any superpowers. He’s not superhuman. He’s not super. So therefore he can’t be a superhero.”
“Jeffrey, what are you talking about? He’s Batman!”
“What does that even mean? Batman is just an eccentric billionaire with insomnia! He’s a vigilante, not a superhero. Because he doesn’t have superpowers. He just has a cool car and a handy belt.”
“Jeffrey, you are insane. For a start, I disagree fundamentally that you need superpowers to be a superhero. But I would argue that he is super anyway, given that ‘super’ just means greater than usual. So in every aspect he is superhuman.”
“So Doug Walters is a superhero because he possesses superhuman abilities?”
“No, Doug Walters is an alcoholic. Are you listening? Batman is the ultimate human. He is flawless, yet he is capable of being flawed. He’s mastered the way of the ninja. He’s one of the world’s greatest scientists and detectives. His body is in peak condition. He is a man of unfathomable mental toughness. He is human perfection. He’s a Renaissance man. And it’s the fact that he is just a normal guy with a bumload of money and a burning vendetta that makes him the greatest. And because he can fight against and alongside people with superpowers. He is a superhero, and you, sir, are an idiot.”
“Charles, you are the very essence of stupidity. I’ll say this slowly: Batman does not have superpowers. He can’t be a superhero.”
I know I’m winning when he calls me Charles.
“He doesn’t need superpowers. That’s my point. You’re an idiot. He can hold his own. He has an alter ego. He has a costume. He fights for Truth and Justice. He has arch-enemies. And he does all this without any weird
mutations. He’s just really determined. That’s what makes him interesting. The fact that with enough dedication and desire, we could all be Batman. Batmen. Batpeople. And that’s what makes him the best.”
Jeffrey closes his eyes and puffs his cheeks.
“You know I’m right, Jeffrey. It’s just like Lex Luthor doesn’t need superpowers to be a supervillain. It’s called context. Look it up. It’s a goddamned comic. I win. You’re wrong. Doug Walters is a hero. Muhammad Ali is a hero. Batman is a superhero. Simple. And the thing that makes him the best superhero is exactly your stupid, ignorant assertion: that he’s just a guy. He is fallible. And unlike Superman, he requires courage.”
“Charles, what the fuck are you flapping on about? Superman is clearly the bravest superhero. You’ve lost your mind. Superman invented courage. He steps in front of bullets. He doesn’t consider risk. He delves into danger without a moment of thought.”
I spread my arms.
“Of course he does! He’s Superman, you idiot! Jeffrey, he’s invulnerable.”
“So what?” Jeffrey scrunches his face.
“So that isn’t courage. He’s a man of steel, you retard. He’s invincible. He doesn’t need to be brave. If a bullet can’t possibly hurt you, how is it brave to stand in front of one?”
Jeffrey frowns doubtfully and stays silent.
“See, Batman is different. He’s mortal. He’s got a real life to risk. Superman just has to avoid Kryptonite. Big deal. Superman fears nothing because outside a few very specific circumstances where he might encounter some stupid rock, nothing can possibly do him in. Batman has the same vulnerabilities as the rest of us, so he has the same fears as us. That’s why he is the most courageous: because he can put those aside and fight on regardless. My point is this: the more you have to lose, the braver you are for standing up. That’s why Batman is superior to Superman, and that’s why I am infinitely smarter than you.”
I am a genius. I have won.
“Pffft! Whatever. I’ll bet Batman won’t be too loud about his superiority when Superman is belting seven shades of shit out of him.”
Jeffrey executes a number of weird kung fu thrusts, then shrugs and pulls a face. He drags his feet as we reach the eastern end of town. Suddenly he grins, slyly.
Jasper Jones Page 6
