The Bogan Mondrian

by Herrick, Steven

  Blake looks angry. He passes me the unlit joint. I turn my back to the wind and light up. The coarse smoke fills my lungs. I try hard not to cough. Once you start, it’s all over. I pass it to Hayley. She giggles and takes a toke before offering it to Charlotte. She drags in the smoke; her eyes narrow and her cheeks blush. The dope makes her even more distant.

  Hayley giggles and leans in peppermint-fresh close to Blake.

  ‘This is better than school,’ she says.

  ‘Anything is better than school,’ Blake answers.

  I don’t think I’ve seen him this talkative since our last win at basketball.

  Charlotte scoffs.

  Blake looks at her. ‘What?’

  She stares up at the clouds and says, ‘Not everything.’

  Blake wipes his nose with his hand. ‘Name one thing that’s worse than school. Go on,’ he says.

  He gets like this sometimes. He can’t let it rest. The anger rises and usually ends in someone getting punched.

  ‘Come on, Blake. Charlotte’s joking,’ I say.

  Blake wipes his nose again. ‘She’s full of jokes.’

  Charlotte takes a huge drag and blows smoke at Blake.

  He jumps off the fence. ‘What have I ever done to you, hey?’

  He takes a step towards Charlotte and then stops.

  Charlotte passes me the joint, then lays back on the rock and closes her eyes, ignoring him. She starts whistling, just to piss him off, I imagine.

  Blake looks at me and Hayley and back to Charlotte. His face is red and his jaw is sticking out. He’s breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling, fists clenched.

  I hold the joint out to him. ‘Have a toke, Blake. Forget it.’

  He looks at me, then Hayley, then the joint. He spits on the rock, not far from Charlotte. ‘Take your joint and shove it,’ he says. He picks up his bag and walks down the track.

  I call out, ‘Blake, come on.’

  There’s the sound of snapping twigs as he storms away.

  Charlotte stops whistling. Hayley takes the joint from me. Her long fingernails are coated with black nail polish. She has freckles on her wrist and all the way up to her elbow. My mouth is dry.

  Hayley giggles. I’m the only one upset that Blake has left. Hayley has another toke and passes it back to me. I take one last drag then crush it under my shoe. I have to say something about my friend.

  ‘Blake’s okay. He just doesn’t get jokes, that’s all.’

  Charlotte sits up and rubs her hands together again. ‘I wasn’t joking. There are lots of things worse than school.’

  ‘He’s my mate.’

  ‘Maybe he lacks imagination,’ Charlotte says.

  ‘Don’t we all.’

  Hayley and Charlotte both look at me.

  ‘That’s pretty negative,’ Hayley says.

  I stand and walk to the fence. ‘Arguing over what’s worse than school, for Christ’s sake. Who cares? I’ll tell you what’s better than school. Being here with your mate. Being here with two girls, even if you don’t know what to say to them. Being …’

  I realise I’ve raised my voice. My knees are trembling. I look down the valley to the green pastures and the eucalyptus forest.

  ‘Do you reckon they call this place the bluff because people climb the fence and kid their mates they’re going to jump?’ Hayley says.

  I sit down against the fence. All of a sudden I don’t care what Charlotte thinks. I should have stuck up for my mate. I close my eyes and think of Blake walking along the track and wonder what the hell just happened.

  After Dad died, I’d woken one Saturday morning to see Blake standing outside my window, holding a fishing rod. He’d grinned and tapped his watch. I’d hopped out of bed and opened the window.

  ‘You dribble when you sleep,’ he said.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I replied, rubbing the tiredness from my eyes. I glanced back to the alarm clock on my dresser.

  He waved the fishing rod. ‘It’s time we went to the reservoir.’

  I shook my head. I hadn’t done anything since Dad died, except zombie through school. On the weekend, I hung around the house or sat in the backyard under the she-oak tree, taking photographs of the clouds and the birds.

  I looked outside past Blake. It was a clear sunny day.

  ‘I’ll give you the first fish I catch, as a gift to your mum,’ Blake said. It made me smile, thinking of Mum trying to gut a fish. That was Mr Grady’s skill.

  Blake looked to the street and sighed. ‘Your mum chose a shit car,’ he said. ‘I loved that Holden.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I muttered.

  ‘I’ll wait around the front. You’ve got five minutes.’ He grinned again. ‘Unless you want to go fishing in your pyjamas.’

  ‘Piss off, Blake.’

  I’d closed the window and watched him walk along the side of the house. He was carrying a towel. A perfect blue sky deserved swimmers and jeans. I’d picked up my camera from the dresser. To capture the one that got away so my mate could boast about it forever.

  A crow calls from a tree to my left. I open my eyes. Charlotte is looking at me. Hayley is lying back on the rock. She’s asleep, judging by the steady rise and fall of her chest. I should have left with Blake. I think of saying something, anything to Charlotte, then decide against it.

  ‘How long have you known Blake?’ Charlotte asks.

  ‘We went to kindy together.’ I smile despite myself. Blake was a year older than me but in the same class. He was the only six-year-old with a mullet.

  ‘In the first year of primary school, I got pushed over on the oval by a bigger kid,’ I say. ‘Blake jumped on the kid’s back and pulled his hair, screaming into his ear like a lunatic.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The kid tossed Blake off and was about to beat him up when the teacher came after hearing all that noise,’ I say. ‘The thing is, the kid left us both alone for the rest of primary school.’

  ‘Because Blake was so unpredictable,’ Charlotte says.

  I shrug. A cloud shades the sun.

  Charlotte looks up to the sky and sighs. ‘I’d like a friend like that.’

  ‘His name’s Blake. And you just insulted him.’

  ‘I have a way of putting people offside, without trying.’

  A cockatoo squawks as it swoops above us, before drifting into the valley. I follow its path above the eucalyptus forest and through the canyon walls. It’s so quiet, I can hear the waterfall at Nellie’s Glen.

  Charlotte starts talking, as if drawing me back. There’s just her voice and the sound of rushing water.

  ‘My dad was made a partner at his stockbroking firm,’ she says. ‘To celebrate, Mum rushed home from work and cooked dinner. Roast chicken stuffed with couscous, peas and asparagus, and a foil-wrap of garlic bread.’ She shivers, staring into the valley. ‘Dad cut into the chicken breast. It wasn’t cooked enough. Mum wanted it ready for when he got home.’

  She stands and walks to the fence and leans against it, her back to the valley. ‘He picked up the plate and threw it against the wall.’ She flinches at the memory. ‘He grabbed the car keys and, as he walked out,’ Charlotte lifts her hand to mimic her words, ‘he flicked Mum across the back of her head.’

  She stares at her hand in mid-air.

  ‘Mum and I didn’t move until we heard the car start. Mum took the chicken from our plates and returned it to the oven. She knelt on the floor and swept the food into a dustpan. The peas clogged the bristles and she picked them out, one by one.’

  Charlotte wipes her hands on her skirt, as if trying to remove the memory.

  ‘We found peas under the fridge, near the door, against the wall. By the time the room was clean, our chicken was cooked. Mum went to the fridge and opened the bottle of champagne she’d bought
to celebrate.’

  Charlotte looks at me.

  ‘She drank a few glasses and put the rest in the fridge for Dad. Before he got home, I tipped it down the sink.’ A tear rolls down Charlotte’s cheek but she doesn’t wipe it away.

  I swallow hard. I want to look away but that would deny her story and I can’t do that.

  A branch snaps nearby. Hayley wakes at the sound. ‘Is there any more dope?’ she asks.

  Blake emerges on the path. He looks at me. His face is flushed.

  ‘I made it back to Lurline Street,’ he says. ‘Pakula was waiting.’ Blake looks back down the track as if the principal has followed him. ‘He told me to come and get you.’

  A flock of black cockatoos fly overhead. I stand and walk to Blake, holding out my hand, to let him know I’m sorry about before.

  We shake.

  I look at Hayley and Charlotte. ‘Wait here for a while after we leave. Just in case.’

  Blake walks off down the track.

  Charlotte smiles at me. ‘There are worse things than school,’ she says.

  6

  Mr Pakula is leaning against his Volvo station wagon, dressed in a white shirt, a yellow and black striped tie and dark trousers. He looks like a private schoolboy with a bald spot. When we approach, he taps his watch.

  ‘You have fifteen minutes to be outside my office,’ he says.

  He opens the door and gets into the driver’s seat. I remember what Charlotte said about men who talk down to you.

  ‘How about a lift?’ I ask.

  He looks horrified at the prospect of me and Blake dirtying his upholstery. ‘Against government regulations,’ he lies.

  ‘We won’t tell,’ I push.

  He drives away without bothering to answer.

  ‘They always have student artwork on the walls of the office,’ I say to Blake as we wait in the foyer. I point to a drawing of horses cantering across a paddock. ‘The legs are out of proportion to their bodies and the eyes are the wrong shape.’

  Blake wriggles on the vinyl chair.

  ‘Heat rash?’ I ask.

  ‘I reckon my underpants are too tight.’

  ‘Don’t mention that to Pakula.’

  Blake laughs just as Mr Pakula opens his office door. He frowns and ushers us inside. Blake stands behind the two chairs on the student side of Mr Pakula’s desk. I sit down.

  ‘Make yourself at home, Saunders,’ Pakula says.

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  He exhales loudly, as if we students suck all the air out of his body.

  ‘Right.’ He shuffles a few papers on his desk. He doesn’t need paperwork to know Blake and I were wagging school.

  ‘Absenteeism is a scourge,’ he begins.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Blake says.

  Pakula looks up, surprised that Blake dared to interrupt. He indicates for Blake to sit down.

  ‘Absenteeism …’ he repeats.

  ‘A scourge,’ I finish. Charlotte is a bad influence.

  Cue loud exhale.

  ‘You will both report to Mr Dexter,’ he checks his watch again, ‘at lunchtime, for one week of detention. An email will be sent to your parents.’ He looks at me meaningfully. ‘I’d welcome a meeting.’

  ‘There’s only Mum left,’ I say.

  He offers a stage-managed cough. ‘Yes, I’m well aware, Saunders. I believe you mentioned that last time you were in here.’

  ‘My dad’s alive,’ Blake adds, perhaps trying to be helpful. ‘But he lives in Queensland.’

  Pakula sighs. ‘Your mothers will receive an email.’ He stands. ‘Detention. Lunchtime.’

  He walks around the desk to the door and opens it to allow us freedom. Such a kind and thoughtful man.

  At lunchtime, Blake and I scoff a pie each from the canteen on the way to the detention classroom. Mr Dexter’s already waiting. He checks his watch as we enter. What is it with teachers and timepieces?

  We each take a seat in the middle row, mine close to the window. Dexter tells Blake to get up and sit on the far side of the room. To stop us talking when he nicks out for lunch?

  Talking is one of the seven deadly sins of detention, followed by:

  laughing,

  eating,

  slouching in your chair,

  yawning,

  passing notes,

  smiling.

  I look out the window. Charlotte is sitting alone under a scribbly gum, looking into the classroom. She smiles at me when I wave. Dexter clears his throat. I look at the whiteboard.

  ‘A book wouldn’t hurt, Luke,’ Mr Dexter suggests.

  I walk to the bookcase near the door, close my eyes and pick. It’s not until I return to the desk that I see what I’ve chosen.

  I groan.

  Mr Dexter looks up.

  ‘Poetry,’ I explain. I hold it up to show him.

  ‘I know that book. It’s a verse novel,’ he says.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A bunch of poems that tell a story.’

  ‘Why didn’t the poet just tell the story in a normal way?’

  Mr Dexter holds up his hands. ‘I’m a Maths teacher.’

  We sit quietly.

  ‘Maybe the poet hoped it would offer a new perspective,’ Mr Dexter adds as an afterthought.

  ‘Or he had a nervous tic and kept pushing the return key on his computer,’ I say.

  Dexter laughs. Which is pretty good for a Maths teacher. I decide to go easy on him for the rest of term. Anyone who dislikes poetry is a friend of mine.

  In my chair, I lean forwards just enough so it looks like I’m reading the book when I’m really watching Charlotte. Who is watching me. This goes on for a few minutes.

  Charlotte doesn’t move until the bell rings. When we stand to leave, she walks around the classroom and meets me on the verandah. Blake ignores her and rushes off to PE. He’s eager to get sweaty, even with the too-tight underwear. Charlotte and I have English.

  She doesn’t say anything as she saunters to class beside me, but our steps are in harmony and before we walk into the room, she touches my hand. It sends a tingle up my spine.

  ‘There are worse things than a double period of English,’ she says.

  ‘Terrorism. The smell of hospital wards. Winter,’ I suggest.

  Charlotte laughs. ‘Wearing brown clothes. Sugar-free chocolate. Having a party and no-one turning up.’

  ‘Having a party and Pakula turning up,’ I respond.

  At least our English teacher, Ms Childs, doesn’t mention poetry or verse novels, so I make it through okay. She tells us of a book about a boy who wears striped pyjamas and gets locked up by the Nazis even though his dad is chief Nazi. It doesn’t end well for the boy.

  At the end of the day, Charlotte catches up to me at the school gate.

  ‘Did you enjoy the Nazi-father story?’ I say.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ she answers.

  I try hard not to smile. She notices.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, big boy,’ she says.

  ‘No-one’s ever called me that before,’ I say.

  We walk down the street, watching the clouds storm in. With a sky this predictable, we don’t need a weather forecast. Charlotte does her hand rubbing thing before reaching for mine. I jump when our fingers touch.

  ‘I won’t bite,’ she says.

  ‘I … I wasn’t expecting it,’ I mumble.

  We reach Stuarts Road, the rich part of town, four kilometres and a million dollars away from my place. North Katoomba is infested with weeds and wattle, while on this side of the highway people tend gardens of rhododendrons and azaleas. All of the houses are hidden behind hedges, automatic gates and stone walls.

  Charlotte’s house is at the end of a curling driveway and has rendered walls
and a verandah around three sides.

  ‘What colour do you call that?’ I ask.

  ‘Bruised pink.’

  I glance at her, wondering if she’s joking.

  We step onto the verandah and she reaches in her bag for a key. I stay back as she opens the door. She turns and looks at me. I remember the story of her dad.

  ‘No-one’s home,’ she says.

  ‘Good. I’ve dealt with enough Nazis today.’

  She laughs and leads me through the doorway.

  Into another world.

  ‘I’ve never seen carpet this clean,’ I say.

  My dirty running shoes look out of place on the thick cream pile. Charlotte kicks off her boots and walks down the hallway. I’ve got holes in my socks so I trundle behind, wondering if my shoes will stain. I glance back to check and stumble into Charlotte.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

  ‘It’s just a house,’ she says.

  We walk into the kitchen. The fridge has double doors, an ice-making machine and a computer screen at the front.

  ‘It’s like a spaceship,’ I say. ‘Which button is lift-off?’

  Charlotte sits on the wooden benchtop and crosses her legs. The plates are stacked neatly in a glass cabinet, the sink is shiny empty, and an espresso machine with a golden eagle on top and lots of dials and plugs stands beside a bright red toaster.

  She keeps looking at me as I wander the room.

  ‘The fridge is full of food,’ she says.

  I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. ‘Am I that obvious?’

  ‘You look hungry.’

  She can read my mind. I open the left door of the fridge. The first thing I see is a tray of golden brown chicken drumsticks. I reach in and take one.

  ‘There’s a microwave,’ Charlotte says.

  I shake my head and bite into the drumstick.

  Charlotte smiles. ‘You really should open the other door.’

  Stacked on the right side of the fridge are shelves of beer and wine with labels I can’t read. French? I grab two bottles of beer. Charlotte tosses me an opener and I do the honours.

  ‘Two less beers for the arsehole,’ she says.