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‘I didn’t kill the book!’

  Marcus rolls his eyes, ‘It’s not dead – just a little dirty’.

  ‘At least the book finally left the shelves!’

  I regret saying it immediately. I’ve borrowed heaps of books from Ms Hopkins, even Shelley when we were forced to do an assignment on poets.

  I mutter, ‘I was talking about the Romantics, not real books.’

  Ms Hopkins stands and walks to the bookcase. Please, don’t toss any more into the garden. She turns to face the class.

  ‘The middle shelf is Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth, Lord Byron.

  ‘Hundreds ... thousands of poems.

  ‘All unread by Year Eleven.

  ‘What’s the difference between these and the Shelley out there under the rose bush?’

  I’m tempted to say the Shelley book will rot away to compost and provide nutrition to the plant. It’s finally useful!

  Ms Hopkins takes a book from the top shelf. Shakespeare. Oh no, not Prince William. Is this a dagger I see before me.

  She smooths her hand along the cover.

  ‘If no-one reads poetry, what’s the point? Why waste paper? Why all that effort, love, time, emotion, only to sit mute and useless, to be so easily neglected. A life ignored, discarded, because no-one cares.’

  Noah Hennessy jumps out of his chair.

  It scrapes noisily on the floorboards.

  My teeth grind.

  Noah strides to the door, opens it and says in a tight, low voice, ‘Can I be excused?’

  Before Ms Hopkins can answer, he closes the door and we hear his footsteps rushing down the verandah to the stairs. We all stand to look out the window. Ms Hopkins walks across the room.

  Noah runs to the rose bush, reaches down and picks up the book, shaking the dirt from its pages, checking for damage.

  Nothing but a wilted spine.

  Noah looks up at us. Marcus is the only person who ducks.

  Noah walks slowly back to class.

  Ms Hopkins meets him in the hallway. They talk for a few minutes in whispers. Noah gives her the book and she places a hand on his shoulder. They return to the classroom. Noah sits at his desk. He stares at the bookshelf.

  Ms Hopkins places the book on her desk and takes a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Year Eleven. That was much too heavy-handed.’

  The bell rings for next period. Ms Hopkins smiles sheepishly. ‘I promise no more book-throwing this term. Not even Shelley.’

  She looks at me. ‘Especially not Shelley.’

  I catch up to Noah in the hallway. He’s walking quickly to Science in H Block.

  ‘Poetry is it, Noah?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Come on, Hennessy, out with it? Sucking up to Ms Hopkins isn’t your style.’

  Noah shifts his schoolbag from one shoulder to the other.

  I check my watch.

  I’ve got Physical Education with Mr Thomas on the other side of the school. He doesn’t like latecomers. He doesn’t like anything much. Except Sport.

  ‘Okay, poetry boy. You and Shelley can drown in verse.’

  I wince at my own bad pun.

  Noah doesn’t bite. He walks into Science class without saying a word. I turn and sprint to the locker room.

  Sport

  In the change room, I’m overwhelmed by the smell of wet socks and Pine O Cleen. ‘Physical Education’. Is that an oxymoron?

  The class is already doing laps of the oval, Mr Thomas blasting on his whistle.

  ‘So good of you to join us, Walker. Two laps at half-pace, now.’

  Maybe Ms Hopkins is right. At least poetry tries to be beautiful, to enlighten us, to be about something. Sport, on the other hand, is just running around in circles for no apparent reason.

  Before setting off, I bend down to tie my shoelaces.

  ‘Walker, I said now!’

  ‘I’m saving the school from a huge insurance claim if I should fall over, sir.’

  Mr Thomas laughs cynically. ‘I doubt you’ll be travelling at a speed fast enough to injure yourself.’

  Jogging slowly away, I call back, ‘My name is Walker, sir.’

  He doesn’t get the joke, just blasts on his whistle again as Harris and Miller finish their laps, having barely raised a sweat.

  They make a beeline for the football in Mr Thomas’s kitbag. Mr Thomas carries a bundle of plastic posts to one end of the oval, digging them into the ground at metre-long intervals. He gets to the end of the line and looks to check if they’re straight, walking slowly back to adjust one of the posts.

  I’ve slowed to a shuffle when he looks up and sees me. The whistle blares. I wave to let him know I’ve heard.

  All of the suburb has heard.

  When I finish, the rest of the class are sitting on the grass, gasping for breath, while Harris and Miller kick the ball to one another. Miller is wearing a sweatband around his head, possibly to keep his brains from tumbling out. As I slow to a walk, he deliberately kicks the ball at me.

  I duck.

  He laughs. ‘This is Sport, nancy-boy.’

  I’d come up with a wisecrack, if I had the breath.

  Mr Thomas says, ‘Go and pick up the ball, Walker. We’ll start our first drill.’

  Maybe Shelley was bullied at school and decided to retaliate by writing poetry? He found truth and beauty through words instead of whatever sport they played in his era.

  ‘Mr Thomas, what sport did they play in ancient times?’

  Mr Thomas motions for me to pass him the ball. ‘This is Sport, Walker. Not History.’

  The longer I hold the ball, the less time for Sport.

  I suggest, ‘Jousting?’

  ‘The ball, Walker.’

  ‘Archery?’

  Mr Thomas sneers, ‘You lot with weapons!’

  Tim says, ‘Aussie Rules.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Aussie Rules. It’s been around for ages.’

  Marcus suggests, ‘Lacrosse.’

  Braith scoffs, ‘That’s not a sport, it’s a brand of shirt.’

  Mr Thomas yells, ‘Walker, the ball!’

  I toss it vaguely in his direction.

  He has to stoop to catch it and doesn’t quite make it.

  The ball bounces up and hits him in the knee.

  Tim deftly puts his foot under the ball and flicks it into the air, catching it and handing it to Mr Thomas.

  ‘There you go, sir. Can we play footy now?’

  To go or not to go

  Dad drizzles olive oil into the saucepan and leans down to check the heat is low. He walks to the bench, takes a sip of wine, then starts chopping the garlic.

  ‘Dad, can I get a note for school?’

  ‘You mean a note to miss school.’

  ‘Well, yeah. But not “real” school.’

  He laughs to himself, ‘“Fantasy” school?’

  ‘No, the excursion. We have to stay out overnight and I won’t learn anything.’

  ‘Don’t be so negative, Darcy.’

  ‘I reckon half the class isn’t going.’

  He tips the garlic into the saucepan and starts chopping the onion. Before too long he’s sniffling.

  ‘Are you crying because you’ll miss me?’

  A bit of humour can’t hurt.

  ‘Good try, Darcy.’ He puts down the knife. ‘Here’s the deal, you can miss the excursion...’

  ‘Great, thanks Dad!’

  ‘I haven’t finished, son.’ He takes a sip of wine.

  ‘You can miss the excursion if you can convince your mother to write the note.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘The ball’s in your court.’

  ‘But you always write the notes.’

  He laughs. ‘Because you’re smart enough to ask me first. Not this time. Try your mum. I’m too much of a pushover.’ He wipes his eyes on his sleeve and rinses the knife under the tap. ‘Think of it as an exercise in debating.’

  ‘Futility, you mean.’

  ‘Mum, do you
think I could get a note for school?’

  She looks up from the books, piled high on her study desk. ‘No.’

  ‘Can you hear me out before you reach a verdict?’

  She puts down her pen and checks her watch. ‘Sure. The answer will still be no.’

  ‘What if every judge thought like you?’

  ‘The world would be a more...’ She removes her glasses, ‘just place.’

  ‘What if every judge decided on the outcome before hearing the argument. Your argument.’

  ‘This is not a courtroom, Darcy. Even if you look guilty.’

  She can barely contain a smile.

  ‘It’s the excursion, Mum. Camping out overnight. With snakes and...’ I can’t think of any other dangerous animals, ‘Wombats and koalas.’

  ‘You know as well as I do, Darcy, there’s no good reason I should write you a note.’

  ‘I can think of a few bad reasons.’

  ‘And why are you asking me? You always ask ... Oh, I see, you’ve already asked David. And he’s said “no” as well.’

  ‘But he was crying when he said it.’

  A look of concern knots her brow. ‘Your father was crying?’

  ‘Maybe he felt guilty for not writing a note.’

  ‘Darcy?’

  ‘Possibly there were onions involved.’

  Mum picks up her glasses. ‘I’m working on a very serious case at present, Darcy.’

  ‘Does it involve a teenager divorcing his parents?’

  ‘You’ll have a great time, believe me.’ As I turn to leave, she laughs. ‘Watch out for the koalas, son.’

  The school excursion

  Kayaking, for six hours down the Kangaroo River. The forecast is for sunshine, a gentle breeze and mass student drownings. Mr Jackson and Ms Pine, our year-level teachers, talk at length about team-building exercises and learning to trust each other, to extend ourselves.

  Silly bastards.

  Marcus has already pulled out, handing a note to Mr Jackson.

  His mother doesn’t practise law.

  He slinks off to the library for two days of pawing through astronomy books while the rest of us load our packs onto the bus.

  I’ve never been in a kayak before.

  None of us have.

  Ms Pine says it’s like a canoe only different. She’s like a teacher, only different.

  Tim and Braith and a few of their mates have boarded the bus early and seized the back row. They put their feet up on the seats in front, daring anyone to come near.

  I’d rather stick my head in a cow pat.

  I bag a spot midway down, beside the window, and quietly pray for Audrey to sit beside me.

  Noah plonks himself down.

  He wriggles uncomfortably for a moment and smiles awkwardly at me. He has forgiven me my slight on poets.

  Audrey sits two seats in front. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun with a chopstick holding it in place. I’d like to take the stick out, watch her heavy hair fall free and then poke Noah in the eye with the chopstick.

  Noah reaches into the bag at his feet and takes out his chess board. He opens it between us. We still haven’t spoken.

  ‘You want a game, do you, Noah?’

  He arranges the pieces, then moves the pawn forward. ‘It might be a fun trip.’

  If he asks me to share the kayak with him, I’ll throw his chess set out the window.

  ‘Why don’t we share a kayak, Darcy?’

  I lean in close, in case anybody else hears. ‘Jackson says everyone has to share with a girl.’

  Noah looks a little confused. ‘Even the girls?’

  ‘What?’

  He starts counting everyone on the bus, pointing at each person, mouthing the numbers. His eyebrows meet in the middle like two caterpillars doing battle, bushy arms and legs flailing.

  He says, ‘There are fourteen girls and fourteen boys.’

  ‘That’s right, Noah.’

  ‘So, for everyone to share with a girl...’ he does the equation in his head, ‘there would have to be twenty-eight girls and fourteen boys.’

  What in hell is he talking about?

  ‘It’s mathematically impossible with our current numbers.’

  We are five minutes into the school camp and already I’m lost. The bus is only now turning onto the main south road.

  The driver leans forward and turns on the radio. If I’m not mistaken that crooning voice belongs to Frank Sinatra. Braith farts loudly from the rear – pardon the pun – of the bus. The driver sings along with Frankie.

  Noah says, ‘Oh! I get it. You mean every boy shares with a girl!’

  A little old lady with a walker waits at the intersection. She leans heavily on her support, not sure if she should cross the street or wait until she gets her breath back.

  ‘You said every one shares with a girl. That’s what I couldn’t understand.’

  ‘Noah, each girl will share a boat with a boy. Understand!’

  ‘A kayak.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A kayak. Mr Jackson said not to call them boats.’

  ‘Mr Jackson says not to call him Jacko the Wacko, but everyone does.’

  Noah smiles conspiratorially, as though we’re smoking a joint at the back of the bus.

  Which reminds me. Tim and Braith. Chances are...

  Tim has his head half out the window. He’s spitting on the passing roof of a Mercedes Sports. Braith is laughing and slapping him on the back. Tim pulls his head back in just as a semi-trailer roars past the bus.

  There’s no weed in sight. If they’ve brought any, it’s packed deep in Tim’s luggage for later tonight.

  Braith sees me watching.

  He points his finger at me, like he’s holding a gun. He fires. Then he blows the barrel. He stands and acts like he’s tucking it back into his holster.

  Braith has seen too many cowboy movies.

  He’d be well suited to the black hat role.

  Noah whispers, ‘Why is Braith shooting you with his finger?’

  ‘Because his gun’s in the backpack.’

  Noah laughs, the chessboard flies off his lap, the pieces scatter across the floor. He clutches at the board before it lands.

  He looks at me like he’s been shot.

  By Braith’s finger?

  Then he starts picking up each of the chess pieces, scrambling around on the floor. I stand up to help.

  Every time the bus turns a corner, a piece rolls away from us, under a seat.

  We’re both on our knees, stretching under the seats.

  No-one else moves.

  Noah crawls under the seat occupied by Jessica Wells and Rosa Paccula.

  Rosa yells, ‘Do you mind?’

  Noah quickly backs out, turning to me.

  I point underneath the seat and say, ‘It’s the chess pieces. We’ve dropped them.’

  Jessica sneers at me like I’m a complete nerd.

  ‘Whatcha want them for?’ she says.

  Noah answers, ‘To play chess!’

  Bugger this. I quickly duck down and reach between her feet, grabbing the piece.

  She screams.

  Mr Jackson calls out, ‘What’s happening back there?’

  Noah says, ‘We’ve lost the pawn, sir.’

  Oh dear!

  Braith and Tim bellow with laughter.

  ‘Who’s got porn!’

  Noah blushes bright red.

  Mr Jackson walks slowly down the aisle on the lookout for dirty magazines.

  Braith calls out, ‘Come on, Noah, show us your porn.’

  Each time he says the word ‘porn’ every boy in the back row starts laughing. Tim Harris is making obscene gestures to the rest of the bus, while Mr Jackson looks at Noah and demands an answer.

  I step in front of Noah and hold up the rook. ‘Noah dropped his chess set, sir.’

  Tim calls out, ‘We’ve got spare porn down the back, if anyone’s interested.’

  Cue ten boys laughing.
>
  ‘Yeah, girls, live porn.’

  Mr Jackson pretends not to hear.

  He tells Noah to be more careful next time.

  Jacko the Wimpo returns to his seat.

  Tim and Braith keep laughing as the bus stops at a traffic light.

  Tim points out the window. ‘Look, fellas, it’s the red-light district.’

  This is, even by Harris standards, a pathetic joke.

  ‘You should hop out and visit your mum, Tim.’

  Did I really say that?

  All the boys laugh, instinctively, then stop when they see Tim’s face. It’s red, and mean, and ugly.

  And heading my way.

  He swears as he runs down the aisle.

  Not even Jackson can ignore this.

  Noah dives across the seat to get out of Tim’s way. There’s nowhere for me to go. Harris jumps and lunges for my neck. I quickly raise my arms to deflect the blow. The force of his leap knocks me backwards against the seat, the air crushed from my lungs. Harris lands on top of me.

  Rosa screams.

  The bus driver brakes quickly, not sure if the scream he’s heard came from inside or out. Everyone grips onto their seat to steady themselves, except me and Tim. We tumble onto the floor. Tim tries to punch me in the stomach but I grip both his arms tightly, lessening the blows.

  We’re in a macabre dance. Tim leads, I hang on for dear life.

  I’m gasping for breath as Tim tries to pummel me. Haven’t we been through this before? Tim’s only had the bandage off for a few days. His wrist seems to be working fine though. It’s wrapped around my neck. And squeezing.

  Mr Jackson stands over both of us, shouting, ‘Harris, let him go!’

  Tim does a excellent impression of a deaf mute.

  I remember watching a nature program with Dad. We both squirmed on the lounge as a giant boa constrictor squeezed the life out of a baby lamb. The lamb kept trying to bleat but no sound came.

  Tim tightens his grip, his bicep bulging against my throat.

  ‘Harris, I’ll count to ten.’

  Ten! Make it five. Or three! I’m having trouble bleating.

  Mr Jackson grabs Tim by the collar and tries to haul him off me. Ms Pine gets a hand in as well. They both pull together.

  The ripping sound is Tim’s shirt, not my throat.

  Ms Pine staggers back holding a piece of cloth.

  Mr Jackson drags Harris off.

  I scurry backwards like a frightened crab.