by Dean Mayes
“Right,” Rex leered bitterly, covering his face in his hands. “Except, I didn’t ask to look after somebody else’s mongrel.”
Virginia gripped the chair so hard that her arthritic knuckles turned white. It was all she could do to keep from throttling her son. That last barb pierced so viciously, that it took her breath away.
“No. Nobody did ask you—but you’re bloody well expected to,” she hissed malevolently. “And, if you ever breathe a word of that to Ruby, so help me God, I will kill you in your sleep.”
With that, Virginia turned from the room and disappeared out through the back door, slamming it behind her.
Rex watched his mother leave the room then gazed blankly at the cup in front of him, dark thoughts rushing through his mind.
Father and son sat across from one another in silence. Rex closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to stymie his headache. Plumes of acid blossomed in his gut, rising up his gullet to break like waves against the back of his throat. The metallic taste in his mouth almost made him vomit.
The memories of last night came to him in flashes—fragments that skipped like film on a poorly aligned reel. He recalled the violence he had wrought against his son but it was distant, disjointed—almost as if they were the actions of someone else. He felt nothing—no shame, no concern—just pity for his predicament now.
Resting his forehead against his hands, his elbows on the table, he slowly rocked back and forth, trying to expunge the awful hangover. As he blinked sleep from his eyes, Rex caught Minty out of the corner of them. The boy sat across from him, his hands steepled in a perfect imitation of his father, slowly rocking back and forth on the balls of his elbows, grimacing just like Rex.
Without betraying his knowledge of Minty’s actions, Rex stopped rocking and drew his hands away from his forehead, stretching his fingers out, keeping his hands intertwined.
Minty followed suit…exactly.
His headache forgotten momentarily, Rex took an interest in this sudden little game. He lifted both arms up; stretching them high above his head, balling his hands into fists, then released them.
Minty, with a mischievous smile, imitated his father perfectly.
Rex, now smiling, also lowered his arms, drew his hands to his cheeks and hooked his fingers into each corner of his mouth, pulling his lips back and poking out his tongue. Minty, trying not to giggle, did exactly the same thing, until he could take it no longer. He giggled, while Rex’s visage broke out into a broad grin and he held his arms out toward Minty.
“Come here,” he said gruffly.
Minty shook his head furiously, grinning.
“Come here now,” Rex repeated playfully.
Minty leaped into his father’s lap but flinched as he landed, screwing up his face.
“What’s the matter?” Rex protested mock seriously.
Minty wrinkled up his button nose and screwed up his mouth.
“You smell like dog shit.”
The boy’s candour stopped Rex cold and he couldn’t respond immediately.
He had a point.
Rex silently reached into his pocket and drew out two white wrapped objects that caused Minty’s eyes to go wide.
They were a pair of “Minties”—his favourite treat.
Rex placed them into Minty’s outstretched hand and nudged him off his lap.
“I better clean myself up,” Rex declared wearily, rising to his feet.
Minty was already unwrapping one of the sweets and beaming proudly. He looked up at his father.
“Don’t you let your grandmother catch you using that sort of language,” Rex warned Minty solemnly. “She’ll kick me in the bloody arse.”
Chapter 4
The classroom was stifling; the windows along one side of the room were shut against the blistering heat outside. Despite the fact that it was autumn, it was not uncommon for the traditional Australian summer to continue well into the following season. So it was, here and now, at the end of March that the extended summer sun beat down with a ferocity more suited to mid December.
A pedestal fan stood in the corner of the room. It was idle—as was the air conditioning unit above the backboard at the front of the room. Jeremy was sitting at the rear of the classroom, gazing absently at the room full of students who sat in silence as their teacher, Mr. Baxter, stood before the blackboard writing an elaborate algebraic equation.
Stephen Baxter was tall, athletic, dressed in a tight fitting polo shirt that revealed a muscular upper body, sporting shorts and running shoes. Evidently, mathematics was not his primary teaching area. As he wrote on the board, Jeremy noticed a number of the female students sitting at the front were eyeing him off admiringly, whispering to one another—probably commenting on his tight arse. Sweat beaded on Baxter’s brow, on his upper lip, it stained his under arms, but he ignored it. In fact, he seemed oblivious to it.
Eventually, Baxter completed his equation and turned to face the class whereupon he was confronted by a group of faces that were clearly uncomfortable. Jeremy shook his head as Baxter scanned the classroom dopily. Students were slouching in their chairs, using pieces of paper to fan their faces. One student blew a puff of air up over her face, another daubed at the sweat on his brow. As though he needed to examine each and every occupant in the room, the teacher scanned his students slowly, painfully so.
Baxter’s lip quivered slightly and he turned to his desk, picking up the remote to the air conditioning unit there. An audible sigh rippled through the room as he pointed it at the unit above the blackboard. Within moments, cool air began to fill the room, much to everyone’s relief. Mr. Baxter grinned slightly, then he tapped the desk with his piece of chalk.
“Okay, okay you lot,” he said with a soft hint of authority. “Sorry about that. Let’s try and focus on this formula now, shall we?”
There was momentary shuffling in the room as the students refocused.
Scowling, Jeremy returned to engraving something into the surface of his desktop with a pocket knife, oblivious to the commotion around him. His text book and writing folder were open before him, his pen lay on the desk, but he was disinterested in the algebra class. The intricate formulas and myriad numbers on the page were complete gibberish to him. They may as well have been another language. This was a double period—an hour in length. But he had zoned out long ago.
Across from him sat Wayne, a friend of sorts. Well, Jeremy didn’t consider Wayne so much a friend as he did a class mate who he often sat next to. But he didn’t completely dislike him. An Aboriginal boy, like Jeremy, Wayne lived near the Delfey house and they often walked to school together, played football at school with a group of boys from the other forms. But Jeremy preferred to keep his distance from most people, including Wayne. Such was his quiet nature.
Wayne watched out of the corner of his eye as Jeremy continued to etch graffiti into the top of the desk. He leaned across and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth to get Jeremy’s attention.
Jeremy didn’t respond. He was lost in defacing the desk top.
Scanning the front of the classroom to ensure the teacher wasn’t watching, Wayne reached out and nudged Jeremy in the ribs.
It had the desired effect, although Jeremy flinched, dropping the knife onto his desk.
He glowered at Wayne.
“I saw Mickey and his crew earlier, scoping out the school ground,” Wayne whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “They were looking for you.”
Jeremy narrowed his eyes in annoyance.
“So,” he hissed quietly. “What’s it to you?”
“They’re hanging around a lot. Chad says they want you on their crew. They’re grooming you.”
Jeremy shifted uncomfortably and looked away, trying instead to focus on his school books. The mishmash of attempted equations and scribble taunted him from the page.
Wayne knew he had guessed correctly. He’d struck a nerve.
“Chad says you guys pulled
a job last Saturday night,” Wayne persisted with increasing enthusiasm. “He says he saw you riding with them.”
Jeremy flicked his head at Wayne and shushed him as quietly as he could.
“Delfey!” Baxter called out from the front of the classroom.
Every head in the room turned to face Baxter.
“Perhaps you could explain the second step in the equation using the method we’ve just discussed.”
Wayne retreated back to his desk as Baxter approached both boys, hands on hips.
Jeremy sat with his mouth open but was unable to respond. He was barely able to conceal the pocket knife before Baxter was close enough to see it.
“No?” Baxter queried as he stopped before the two boys, folding his arms across his chest. “Surely you have been following this whole time, haven’t you?”
Baxter looked down Jeremy’s notepad on the desk, the mess of scribble over the top of several vain attempts at following the equation Baxter had written on the board. The teacher reached down and rotated the folder on the desk, examining Jeremy’s work—or lack thereof.
Wayne glanced across discreetly as Baxter turned the pad around, inspected it, then turned it back to Jeremy, shaking his head slowly, sarcastically. The teacher’s hand brushed over the graffiti Jeremy had etched into the desk and brushed a few splinters of plastic and chip board away.
All at once, Baxter’s mocking expression darkened.
“I must have been mistaken, Delfey. Here I was thinking that, because you appeared so relaxed and comfortable, you were miles ahead in your understanding of the task.”
Baxter lifted the notepad in his hand and proffered it in front of him, so that everyone could see the page.
“Obviously I was wrong. It’s obvious that you are far from having any understanding.”
Jeremy’s cheeks flushed and he shrank down in his seat.
Abruptly, Baxter tossed the notepad at Jeremy where it slapped down harshly on the desk. Baxter stepped forward, placing a finger down on the graffiti.
“This is mathematics Mr. Delfey, not Mrs. Hewson’s art class.”
Without warning, Baxter shoved his finger into Jeremy’s chest before turning abruptly and walking toward the front of the classroom.
Jeremy massaged the spot on his chest, smarting from Baxter’s unexpected action.
“If you aren’t prepared to even try and count to ten—like most of your kind—then I don’t want you in my class at all.”
Jeremy’s eyes hardened into a glare at Baxter’s callous jibe and he felt his embarrassment at being laid bare in front of the entire class quickly coalesce into anger.
Baxter stood there, eyeing Jeremy sanctimoniously, crossing his arms over his chest again.
“Fuck you,” Jeremy spat venomously, causing his classmates to gasp in shock.
Baxter’s arms fell slackly to his sides and his expression fluctuated from disbelief to barely concealed rage.
“What did you say to me?” Baxter retorted angrily.
“You heard me,” Jeremy shot back. His hand shot out and shoved the notepad and text books off his desk. “Fuck-wit.”
Baxter stepped forward and with an outstretched arm, pointed a finger at Jeremy.
“Get out of my class right now!” he spat, so forcefully that he launched visible spittle from his mouth.
Jeremy sat in his seat defiantly. He crossed his arms, clasping his hands into fists.
The veins in Baxter’s neck popped out as he marched up to Jeremy’s desk. With a single, abrupt motion, Baxter swept his arm down and tossed the desk aside as though it were made of match sticks. Jeremy barely scuttled back on his chair to avoid being struck.
“Get out NOW!” Baxter bellowed, leaning in so close that Jeremy could smell his breath.
His defiance faltered while the words of his teacher still echoed in his mind—“like most of your kind.”
Jeremy finally stood. His eyes remained locked on Baxter as he slowly stooped to pick up his scattered belongings from the floor.
“Just leave them and get out,” Baxter shouted. “Principal’s office—now!”
Wayne, sitting in silent fear across from Jeremy, watched as his friend slowly walked from the classroom and exited.
In the hall, Jeremy nearly crashed into a woman who was coming from the direction in which Jeremy was heading.
“Jeremy!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with concern more than fright. Evidently, she had heard the shouting from down the hall and had come to see what all the commotion was about.
Jeremy deftly side-stepped her and marched on down the hall.
Miss Glasson, a svelte woman with a kind and pretty face, turned and hurriedly followed him.
“Jeremy. What on earth is wrong, mate? Please stop.”
“Leave me alone Miss!” Jeremy shouted. “Just fucking leave me alone!”
Miss Glasson slowed to a stop in the hall and watched helplessly as Jeremy barged through the exit to the building, and was gone.
Inside the classroom, Baxter stood before the upturned desk. The students around him sat in stunned silence. Though this was not the first time they had locked horns, this confrontation was particularly shocking. No one would dare to cross Baxter in the way Jeremy had.
Turning to Wayne, Baxter signalled to him brusquely with that same accusatory finger.
“Redmond!” he barked, before turning toward the front of the classroom. “Pick up that bloody desk.”
Wayne scrambled to his feet and set about complying with Baxter’s orders. As he put his hands to the desk itself, his fingers brushed across the graffiti that Jeremy had scratched into the surface and he looked down at it as he righted the desk.
It was a small but perfectly constructed etching of a violin.
Jeremy sat with his head bowed, his back leaning against a fence at the front of the school complex. His arms rested on his knees and he rubbed his palms together absently. Despite the heat from the afternoon sun, he was oblivious. So much so, that when the school bell chimed distantly in his ears, it was several moments before he heard students filing out from the building, signalling the end of the school day.
His anger swirled inside him and he allowed it to fester. He wanted to smash Baxter’s teeth in, knock him to the ground and kick him in the stomach. His words continued to reverberate inside Jeremy’s mind.
‘…like most of your kind.’
The dark thoughts threatened to run away from him, but Jeremy was interrupted when Wayne approached him, brandishing his books and stationery.
Jeremy looked up, squinting in the daylight as Wayne plonked down on the grass beside him.
“What did the principal say? Are you suspended again?” Wayne asked almost too enthusiastically.
Jeremy flashed him a glare as he began stuffing his books into his backpack.
“I didn’t go to the principal. Are you stupid?”
Wayne seemed to pale considerably.
“Well Mr. Baxt…”
“He can bite me!” Jeremy retorted, cutting him off viciously. “I’m not gonna do anything that prick says. He doesn’t give a shit about me or you or any one of us.”
Jeremy pointed harshly at his own chest, emphasising the bare patch of dark skin there.
“He won’t help us try to understand any of that bullshit maths. He only cares about the good students in the class. I’m done with him.”
Wayne tried to think of something to salve his friend’s anger but he couldn’t. He decided to remain silent.
From behind both boys, through the sounds of various cars arriving and pulling up to the curbside behind school buses, the low grumbling of one particular vehicle rose out of the background hum, accompanied by the booming sound of hip hop music.
Immediately, Jeremy snapped his head up, recognising the sound of the approaching vehicle. He stood as a menacing looking Holden Monaro coupe slowed to a stop before him. Decked out with wide rimmed alloys, fat tyres and spoilers both front and back, the dus
ty, burgundy vehicle stood out like a sore thumb.
A trio of young males sat inside the car, all of them laughing and bouncing around to the music. They were dressed in varying styles of street wear—garish and expensive looking. Upon seeing the two boys, the male in the front seat dropped the volume on the car’s stereo just enough so that he could make himself heard.
Lifting his sunglasses away from his eyes, he flashed an unnerving smile at Jeremy, revealing several gaps in his teeth.
“G’day, bro,” he greeted, chilling Wayne but causing Jeremy to smile faintly in return.
He immediately jumped the fence and stepped up to the car.
“What’s happening? You coming with us?”
Jeremy’s smile faded instantly and he scratched his head.
“I can’t Mickey,” he responded cautiously. “I…I’ve got other things on tonight.”
The youth, Mickey, flattened his expression and he studied Jeremy with intimidating arrogance. His companions peered through the open passenger window.
“Other things…” Mickey echoed in a monotone voice. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment then nodded.
“Gavin won’t be happy to hear that, you know.”
Jeremy fidgeted on the spot where he stood, unconsciously backing away, just a little.
“I’ve gotta look out for my sister and cousin,” he explained weakly. “I-I’ve gotta see them home, wait for my folks. There’s no one else to do it.”
Mickey made a face, screwing his nose up as though an awful smell had pervaded his nostrils. He glanced across the school grounds where one of the teachers was standing, hands on hips, watching the car suspiciously.
Mickey rolled a piece of gum around in his mouth and patted the outside of the car door with his hand in time to the music.
Finally he nodded.
“Gavin will be disappointed…” he began, then he shrugged and signalled wordlessly to the driver. “Oh well…it’ll be on your head.”
Mickey jabbed his finger at Jeremy threateningly. The driver gunned the engine and the vehicle sped away from the two boys.
