Girl Running, Boy Falling

by Kate Gordon

  ‘Are you sure?’ I murmur. ‘I mean, if I wasn’t here, then—’

  Auntie Kath inclines her head to one side. ‘Tiger, you’re not holding me back from anything. You never have. If I want … someone, I’ll find them. But for now, it’s just you and me, kid. And I’m happy, as long as I’ve got you. You’re the closest thing to a soulmate that I’ve ever had. All right?’

  I nod. ‘I want you to be happy.’

  She grips my hand. ‘I am. I was a different person when I was young. Your Grandma T is brilliant, but she was never the most … affectionate mother. Birdie never seemed to need it. She was born independent. But I was needy. I’m not anymore. You get to a certain age, and you realise … you have to be your own best friend. You have to love yourself. Even if you’re in …’ She gestures down at her grubby overalls. ‘Even if you only ever wear fancy dresses to school concerts.’

  ‘I still can’t imagine my mum in a fancy dress,’ I say, circling back to the beginning.

  ‘She was never just one thing,’ Auntie Kath says. ‘She was like you. She loved music and movies. She loved school. She loved your dad. She loved football. She loved The Cure and The Bangles. She loved The Godfather and The Sound of Music. She never wore makeup, but she did wear a dress, once or twice a year, and she looked just like Elle Macpherson when she did. She was a million different things your mum. So grounded, and yet running off to unicorns and elves. She couldn’t be pinned down. She was everything, Tiger. Just like you.’

  Auntie Kath winks and ruffles my hair. I love her more than Nutella.

  I leave her on the window seat, watching the sky. Going up to my room, I lie on my bed for a while.

  I think about my mum and dad and the chook shed and the Otherwhere and how now there’s a new love story set in Grandma T’s garden.

  I can still feel his hands shaking.

  I can still feel his lips.

  I have to talk to him.

  ‘He’s not here,’ says Hannah when I go over. Her voice is a bit unsteady; a bit nervous. ‘Out. I guess he’s sorting footy stuff.’

  It’s okay. He’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll bake him Monte Carlos.

  I’ll talk to him about football. I’ll talk to him about the mainland.

  I’ll make him smile.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the hallway before school our fingertips brush as we pass each other.

  I knew he’d come back.

  At lunch time, I give him the biscuits and a new Paddle Pop—rainbow this time.

  ‘Thanks, Champ,’ he says, and it doesn’t bother me that he calls me that. ‘And I’ve got something for you.’ He reaches into his backpack and my heart begins to thud.

  It won’t be a flower. It won’t be a love letter. Shut up, Tiger. You and your stupid hopes.

  It’s not a flower, nor a love letter. Wally pulls from his bag a folded pile of brown and gold.

  I shake my head as he hands it to me. ‘What? No. Wally, that’s your guernsey. You need it. It’s your lucky one.’

  Wally shrugs. ‘I thought you might like it.’

  He drops the guernsey on my lap and nods. ‘And look.’

  I unfold it, hands trembling. On the back, he’s written a fragment of a poem. I recognise it from English class. It’s Robert Frost, I think. I squint, trying to remember how the rest of it went.

  ‘What’s this one called?’ I ask him. ‘I know it, but …’

  He just smiles. ‘There’s another message, too,’ he continues. ‘Inside. But you’re not allowed to look at it now, okay? Look at it alone. Promise? In, like, a week. Look at it then.’

  I nod. ‘I promise.’ I’d promise Nick Wallace anything. I’d walk into the sky for him.

  I’m fighting back tears. He thinks I’m awesome.

  ‘You’re sure?’ I ask Wally. ‘You want me to have it?’

  ‘It’s all yours,’ he says. And then he leans in. ‘Don’t get all emotional on me, you. Life is beautiful. Just smile, okay?’

  I wonder when we’ll kiss again.

  ‘So, um, you’ll probably need a different guernsey, anyway,’ I say, tentatively, ‘when you’re playing on the mainland? That’s why, right?’

  I expect to see that ocean grin again. But Wally’s face darkens a bit. He shrugs and turns away.

  ‘Pete, I got you something too.’ He passes over a pair of footy boots—brand new. ‘They were a pressie from my nan,’ he says. ‘Don’t fit properly but they’re a good brand.’

  ‘I know,’ says Peter, turning them over in his hands. ‘They’re wicked and, Wally, they’re worth a stack of money. You could sell these. They’re wasted on me, mate. You know I suck. I’m never gunna make the team. I’m just a “nerdy, delusional ranga”, according to Pedda. I don’t deserve your boots.’

  ‘Pedda’s a dickhead,’ says Wally. ‘You’re getting better. I reckon next year you’ll make the team, for sure. Especially with these babies on. Keep trying, okay, for me? And don’t worry about the boots. I just did a clean-out of my room, that’s all. I have so much junk I needed to get rid of. It’s nothing, honestly. Just take them and, you know, bloody practise a bit, hey? You’ll never get better if you don’t practise. Spend less time pretending to be Austin Powers, more doing drills and you’ll be a Hawk in 2019, no worries. Okay?’

  ‘Who’s Austin Powers?’ Peter asks.

  ‘He means, stop pretending to be Lech of the Century,’ Mel says, ‘because you’re fooling nobody and Pedda still won’t give you the time of day.’

  ‘I mean,’ Wally says, ‘you deserve the boots. Just, you know, do them justice, okay? Put in the time.’ He winks at Mel. ‘And, yeah, just try and be yourself a bit more, okay? Before you give Melody a stroke.’

  Peter winks. ‘Okay. Cheers, mate.’

  ‘And hey, Rozza, Mel? Got stuff for you two as well.’

  ‘What’s up with you, idiot?’ Melody growls, her eyes narrowing. ‘Having a quarter-life crisis? Going for a life of minimalism?’

  Wally chucks her a beaten-up book. On its cover there are two girls sitting on a trapeze.

  Melody peers at it. ‘Tipping the Velvet?’

  Wally shrugs. ‘When we first became friends, I’d never met a gay girl before. I didn’t really … understand. I asked Mrs Kuzmic in the library if there were any books about, you know, lesbians.’ To Wally’s credit, his cheeks don’t colour. ‘She told me about this one. She said they didn’t have it in the library, but I could have her copy. It’s awesome. You’ll love it.’

  ‘Wow.’ Melody nods, holding the book close to her chest. ‘Just … wow.’

  I look over at Roz, who’s standing awkwardly, one foot wrapped around her other calf. ‘You honestly don’t have to give me anything, Wally,’ she says. And I know why she’s embarrassed. Roz hates it when anyone gives her gifts. Her family is so rich, they can afford to give her anything. She hates us spending any money on her, when none of us have as much as she does.

  ‘It’s fine, Roz,’ Wally says, gently. ‘I want you to have it.’ He passes her over a plastic bag. It’s got clothes in it, too, like my present. But hers isn’t a guernsey. It’s a t-shirt. She laughs when she sees what’s printed on it.

  ‘Screw the system.’

  And a picture underneath of a cartoon girl flipping the bird.

  ‘This is yours?’ Roz asks. ‘I never saw you wear it.’

  Wally shakes his head. ‘Nah. Got it for your birthday. I just decided to give it to you early.’

  Roz’s cheeks are bright pink. ‘This top is made for someone like Mel. Not me. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to wear it.’

  ‘You are,’ Wally says, simply. ‘If you really like it?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ she sighs. ‘It’s so, so perfect.’

  Wally’s smile is huge. He nudges me with his hip and winks.

&
nbsp; I wonder when we’ll kiss again.

  He’s still so close to me. I can feel the warmth of his body.

  After lunch, I wave goodbye to him and he salutes me.

  I wonder when we’ll kiss again.

  Dear Dad,

  This is the last one.

  Should I just burn them?

  Let the ash fly away …

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m on Express checkout next to Rhino. He’s in great spirits, serenading me between customers—The Backstreet Boys and 5ive—and drawing me silly pictures on the receipt roll stubs.

  I’m wearing the guernsey, under my work shirt. It’s my secret.

  I draw Rhino a unicorn with some sparkly eggs. He tells me they’re cool and, one day, we should go on a unicorn hunt together. Then Jamie comes over and ‘confiscates’ my picture of the unicorn from Rhino to show the manager, and then goes and hides behind the loo rolls.

  The next customer who comes through my checkout has to ask if I’m okay because I’m cry-laughing so hard.

  When I knock off, at a quarter past nine, I’m surprised to see Auntie Kath’s beetle parked out front. Usually, I get a lift home with Rhino’s mum and dad on Tuesday nights.

  Rhino’s parents are here, too, and Auntie Kath is standing by their car, talking to them through the window.

  She looks up as we approach. Her face is grey.

  My first thought is Granda Craig and Grandma T.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I yell, speeding up. ‘Is it Grandma T? Is she sick? Or Granda Craig? Did he fall in the paddock or something? What happened?’

  Auntie Kath shakes her head, slowly, and I see there are tears in her eyes, shimmering under the fluoro lights in the car park. There are tears on her face, too. She’s not bothering to wipe them away.

  Her hands reach for me. She rubs my arms. Her chin is trembling.

  ‘It’s not Mum and Dad, Tiger,’ she says. And that’s when Mabel’s passenger door opens and Grandma T climbs out. She strides over to me and pulls me into her. Holds me so tight I feel like I’m being squeezed to nothing.

  I know I should feel relieved, but my chest feels strange and hollow.

  ‘What’s—’ I begin, pulling back from Grandma T’s shoulder.

  ‘Tiger, it’s Wally,’ Auntie Kath says. Grandma T lets me go and now Auntie Kath has her arms around me.

  ‘Honey,’ she says again, into my hair. She takes a deep, shaking breath.

  ‘Tiger, Wally’s dead.’

  Dear Mum,

  I fell in love

  With a perfect boy

  And he was magic, magic, magic

  And the wind blew him away

  Like a dandelion clock

  And I’m breaking, broken,

  Brittle and bare and all I am

  Is a howl

  And my throat is raw with it

  There’s acid in my tears

  And I want to write it to you

  Until my fingers bleed

  It’s not fair

  It’s not fair

  Mummy

  I wonder when he’ll kiss me again

  Nick Wallace is

  Curly brown hair

  Brown eyes so dark they’re almost black

  Skin like Jersey caramels

  Long, thin legs

  Rough hands

  One dimple, on the left-hand side

  Freckles on his nose like cappuccino dust

  Broad, lopsided smile

  A voice like chocolate

  A laugh like sunbeams

  Kindness

  Gentleness

  Thoughtfulness

  Nick Wallace is the sky

  Seagulls

  The ocean

  The clouds

  Nick Wallace is

  Nick Wallace was

  Nick Wallace isn’t

  I am

  I am nothing

  Chapter Eighteen

  The school assembly hall has never been this silent.

  Usually, before assemblies, until we’re called to order (even most of the time after), the noise in this hall is deafening.

  Today, nobody wriggles. Nobody laughs. Nobody speaks.

  We wait. Silently. Some people lean their head on the shoulder of their friend. Some people clasp their neighbour’s hand so tightly their knuckles turn white.

  Some people cry.

  But they do it silently. Tears roll from cheeks; splash on Docs and Vans.

  Melody sits on my left. Roz sits on my right.

  Melody squeezes my hand. Roz strokes my hair.

  I do not cry.

  I do not move.

  My heart seems like the only thing inside me that’s alive. It beats furiously, feverishly, as if I’m being chased by a bull or a bear.

  Everything else is numb.

  He’s gone.

  He’s gone.

  He’s gone.

  Why is my heart even beating, still? Why aren’t I dead, too?

  We all know why we’re here. News of Wally’s death spread like wildfire; like a contagion. Ms Newall won’t be telling us anything that will shock us. There won’t be gasps today. Nobody will faint to the floor. We all know exactly how he did it—the rope and the tree. And he fell.

  I heard some people murmuring, on the way in, asking, ‘Why is there even an assembly? What can they tell us that we don’t already know?’

  We know everything.

  We know Nick Wallace died, alone, in his backyard, while his mum ‘ducked out to the shops’.

  We know she found him when she returned (with a box of pasta and a bottle of carbonara sauce in a string bag over her shoulder), hanging from the silver birch in their backyard.

  His face was blue.

  Maybe that’s true. Maybe we only imagined it.

  We know that Hannah screamed, and that the bottle of sauce smashed on the ground, and her neighbours on both sides came running.

  And then the police came.

  And the ambulance.

  Why an ambulance?

  His face was blue. His heart was no longer beating.

  Why are we here?

  What can Ms Newall possibly tell us that we don’t already know?

  She climbs the stairs to the stage, slowly. When she takes her place, behind the lectern, she straightens her black cardigan; smooths her blonde hair behind her ears; clears her throat, twice.

  Ms Newall is the powerful, polished, professional head of our school community; the youngest principal in our school’s history, younger than Auntie Kath. Only ten years or so older than all of us. She has a younger sister in our year.

  A younger sister as old as Wally was.

  Across the row, I see her sister, Meg, give Ms Newall a little wave and Ms Newall manages a tiny smile.

  But then, as she looks down at the papers in her hands, her smile drops.

  ‘Students,’ she begins, ‘you all know why you are here.’

  Nobody makes a sound. Nobody even mutters. Yes, we all know why we’re here. We stay silent.

  She goes on.

  ‘Nick Wallace, a beloved member of our school community, has tragically passed away. Many of you will know the circumstances surrounding his death. I won’t go into them again, here. I will only say this, I hope—with every fibre of my being—I pray that you all know that the cause of Wally’s … of Nick’s death, is, in my heart, the most devastating way for a life to end. And I pray that none of you out there feel … or will ever feel, what he must have …’ Ms Newall breaks off. She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, quietly. ‘I am not handling this well. I wish that I was. I wish I could stand up here and be strong and brave, for all of you, but I’m not feeling strong. I’m feeling … just ex
actly how I imagine all of you are feeling. Grief-stricken; devastated; bewildered. I want you to know that I will be seeking counselling, to help me deal with this tragedy. I want you to know that there is no shame in seeking help, if you need it. I do. And we will be offering counselling to every single one of you starting tomorrow. I will be going around your classrooms, personally, to talk with you and to help you make appointments. We will be bringing in extra counsellors to be there for you. Those of you who were close friends with Nick—’

  Am I imagining now that she looks straight at me?

  ‘—you, I will be coming to see, right away, following this assembly. You will have priority appointments with one of our school counsellors this afternoon. But if any of you—even those of you in other grades, who weren’t close to Wally—feel like you need an urgent appointment, we will ensure that counselling will be provided. We will let you know the details for Nick’s memorial and funeral as soon as we can.’

  Ms Newall shakes her head again. She takes a small step back from the lectern. Mrs Dennis, the vice principal, takes her arm and offers her a bottle of water. Ms Newall takes a sip, then steps forward again to the lectern. ‘I wish I had better words for you today, but the best ones I can give you—the most important ones I want to give you—are these: No matter how bad you feel today, how completely distraught and overwhelmed you may be, how hopeless … please keep hope. Please know it will get better. Everyone in this school community is in this together. We are all here for each other. We can get through this together. You are not alone.’

  She blinks back tears and, again, she says, ‘You are not alone.’

  But it’s not true. I have never felt more alone in my life.

  ‘I’d like you all to return to your classes now,’ she says. ‘It’s important that you keep up your routines; that you stay here on school property and attend all your scheduled appointments. But if you need a moment—to laugh or talk or cry—your teachers will allow that to happen. I will see all of you soon and, in the meantime, my door is always open.’

  Mrs Dennis takes the microphone then. ‘Grade Sevens will exit first …’ she begins.

  I stand up.