Bleakboy and Hunter Stand Out in the Rain Page 6

  Hunter, already sweating, walked to pick up the frisbee. He held it in his hand and noticed the name ‘Nathan’ printed on the rim in black texta. He covered the name with his hand and looked to where his father stood. He flung the frisbee with all his might. At electric speed, it flew a metre from the ground, aiming straight for his father. Mr Riley stood and watched it shoot toward him, his hands on his hips. At the last moment, he flung out an arm and caught it effortlessly, pirouetting as he did and flinging it straight back.

  For what seemed like hours, his dad insisted on throwing the frisbee. Hunter began to aim the frisbee away from his father, making him run, hoping he’d tire and suggest a swim. But Mr Riley returned the frisbee with childish abandon while more sunbathers strolled down to the sand where they read magazines or listened to iPods or swam in the cool water. Hunter wished he could do the same.

  Finally, Mr Riley whistled and waved for Hunter. At last, Hunter thought. But when he joined him, his dad grinned and said, ‘Try this, Hunts.’

  Mr Riley gripped the frisbee and turned to face the harbour. He checked to see his son was watching and then flung the frisbee high into the air. The frisbee flew out over the water and just when Hunter thought it would drop, it turned like a boomerang and sailed unerringly back to where they were standing. His father picked it up, laughing. ‘How’s that?’ he called to no-one in particular.

  ‘Can I have a go?’ Hunter asked.

  His dad looked at the frisbee in his hands. ‘Sure, Hunts,’ he said, reluctantly, ‘but let me show you once more how to do it.’ He walked closer to Hunter and held out the frisbee. ‘You have to aim higher and when you release it, flick your wrist. That way it’ll bend and return.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a real skill.’

  His dad threw it again and, sure enough, the disc shot out over the water and returned, this time with even more backspin and force. It zipped over their heads and landed near a group of senior citizens sharing a thermos of tea on a park bench. Mr Riley ran to pick it up. He ignored the old people.

  ‘You reckon you can do it, Hunts?’

  ‘Sure,’ Hunter said.

  Hunter sits up in bed and laughs, quietly, so as to not disturb his mum. He recalls the look on his father’s face when the frisbee shot out over the water and kept going. Hunter had thrown it with every ounce of energy in his body. He guessed it travelled sixty, maybe seventy metres before plunging down into the deep water. No way his father was retrieving that frisbee. It was gone. Bye bye, Nathan.

  *

  ‘Oops,’ said Hunter. Such a simple word, he thought, with so much meaning.

  ‘Geez, Hunts, that wasn’t …’ His father’s words fell away, like a leaf tumbling in the wind. They both looked out across the water. A ferry approached from the west, on a collision course with the green plastic disc. Hunter could see the captain standing alone at the wheel and below him on deck were tourists in sunhats, filming the idyllic beach, the swaying line of poplar trees and the father and son in the park, gawking. They watched the ferry run over the frisbee. Hunter saw it bob, valiantly, on top of the approaching wave for a second, before disappearing under water. Broken to pieces, Hunter hoped.

  Hunter looked around. His father was sitting on a bench seat under a poplar. Hunter hadn’t noticed him move. He watched the ferry recede into the distance, among the sails of bobbing yachts and hovering seagulls. On the opposite headland, a man held a kite in his hands, while a boy stood with the kite line a few metres away. The child ran and the man released the kite. It rippled into the sky, floating higher as the boy ran. The man kept his arms raised, as if in worship. Finally, Hunter walked to the seat and sat beside his father.

  ‘I’m moving to New Zealand, Hunts,’ his father said. ‘I’ve arranged for a ship to transport my car.’

  Hunter wondered how much line was left on the kite. Just how high could it float?

  ‘I’ve been offered a job. And,’ he looked at his son, ‘I’ve met a woman called Patsy.’

  ‘Ha!’ Hunter gets up from bed and quietly opens his bedroom door. The light shines from under his mother’s door. She’s probably reading in bed. He creeps along the hallway and walks downstairs to the kitchen. He doesn’t want to think about his father anymore. He doesn’t want to hear about New Zealand and the skiing holidays his dad promised that would never arrive. He doesn’t want to visit geysers or bubbling hot mud baths. And he certainly doesn’t want to hear about anyone named Patsy. Hunter doesn’t want another mother.

  16

  jesse

  The next morning, I have trouble choosing what to wear. I throw all the tshirts from my drawer out on the bed. There are six black shirts and one dark green one. I look up at Trevor. ‘Looks like it’s black, again, Trev,’ I say.

  At breakfast, I eat two poached eggs. Mum stands beside the stove watching me. She’s been hovering all morning, serving me breakfast, refilling my glass with orange juice as soon as I take a sip, offering me extra toast. When I finish the poached eggs, she scoops the plate up from the table and rinses it under the tap.

  ‘Can I make you another slice of toast, Jesse, with raspberry jam?’ she asks.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. But I’m full.’ I rub my stomach for effect.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

  Maybe I rubbed too dramatically? ‘I’m fine,’ I say. Actually, I’m a little queasy from eating all the food she’s prepared for me. I feel guilty eating so much when Kelifa is still waiting.

  ‘Jesse?’ Mum looks concerned.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat.

  Mum coughs. ‘Your father told me,’ she looks toward their bedroom, ‘about the incident.’ She reaches across and pats my arm. ‘I’ve packed a little treat in your lunch box.’

  Why is she being so nice? Did Dad make up a story about me doing something good rather than stealing his credit card? She presses my face against her stomach in a big hug. ‘I just want you to know how proud—’

  Beth walks into the kitchen and sees us hugging. Mum lets go of me and walks back to the benchtop. ‘Beth, what do you want for lunch?’

  ‘Ten dollars thanks, Mum,’ smiles Beth.

  ‘To eat, Beth?’ Mum holds up a block of cheese and a loaf of bread.

  ‘Okay. Five dollars,’ Beth says. ‘We have a healthy food canteen, remember?’

  ‘And we have a limited budget,’ responds Mum. ‘Bread and cheese?’

  ‘Five dollars!’ implores Beth. ‘It’s hardly going to break the bank is it?’

  ‘Beth!’ Mum says, a wisp of hair falling in front of her eyes. She whispers, ‘Not in front of …’ Her eyes flit toward me.

  Beth groans. ‘Jesse heard that, Mum.’

  Mum busily butters a slice of wholemeal bread and pulls open the second drawer, looking for a sharp knife to cut the cheese.

  ‘Don’t bother, Mum,’ says Beth. ‘Ryan will buy me lunch today,’ Beth winks at me, ‘and then I’ll owe him one.’

  Mum looks up quickly, her hand clenching the knife. She bites her lip and searches the kitchen until she locates her handbag among the envelopes and unpaid bills on the bench. She reaches for her wallet, takes out some coins and places them on the table. ‘Well, it is a good canteen, I suppose. And we should support it.’

  Dad walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge, staring absentmindedly inside. Mum finishes making the sandwich, wraps it in wax paper and places it into a brown paper bag, offering it to him. Dad holds it in front of him, a questioning look on his face.

  ‘It’s a cheese sandwich, Dad,’ Beth says.

  Dad shakes his head. ‘Nah, Brian and I are going to the Berliner Cafe for lunch,’ he says. ‘Chicken schnitzel, rosti and mushroom sauce. Now that’s a lunch!’ Mum gives him a look and makes a clicking sound at the back of her throat.

  Dad puts the paper bag in his briefcase, adding, ‘But I could have this before going to the cafe,’ he looks at Mum, ‘and just have a coffee with Brian.’

  ‘We all have to make sacrifices,’ says Beth, casting a g
lance my way, ‘now we’re on a budget.’

  Dad coughs and everyone looks at me.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing, Jesse,’ says Mum. ‘Beth, why don’t you walk to school with your brother again? Like yesterday.’

  ‘What, are we budgeting petrol as well,’ moans Beth.

  ‘Still saving the planet, Beth. Climate change, remember?’ Dad reaches toward the hook for the keys to his Subaru.

  ‘You could ride your bike, Dad,’ Beth suggests.

  Dad smiles. ‘I’d love to, but I’m wearing a suit.’

  ‘Fine, let Jesse borrow your bike,’ suggests Beth.

  ‘Beth, walk with Jesse,’ Mum interrupts, ‘or use that money I gave you for a bus fare.’ Mum smiles, knowing Beth won’t catch a bus.

  I get up to leave the table.

  ‘Have a lovely day, Jesse,’ Mum says.

  ‘What about me?’ asks Beth.

  ‘Yes,’ says Mum, putting her wallet back into her handbag.

  As we’re walking to school, Beth places a sisterly arm around my shoulder. ‘So what’s your secret, Jesse?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘The hugs from Mum, the two-course breakfast. I bet you didn’t have to beg for five dollars for lunch,’ she says.

  ‘Actually, Mum gave me ten dollars,’ I say, in a quiet voice.

  ‘What?’ Beth removes her arm and stares at me.

  ‘You can have half, if you want,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not the money. It’s how they’re treating you and …’ Beth frowns.

  ‘And all I did was steal Dad’s credit card,’ I finish the sentence for her. I shift my backpack from one shoulder to the other.

  ‘It’s spooky, isn’t it?’ she says.

  ‘Maybe they think I’m developing into a klep … kleto … A person who steals things without meaning to,’ I say, my hands shaking at the thought of not being able to stop myself from stealing stuff. What’s next? Dad’s Subaru for joy rides around the suburb? An iPod from the department store? Hunter’s backpack? That would mean certain death.

  ‘Jesse. You’re not a kleptomaniac,’ says Beth.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because you can’t even say the word!’ She giggles. ‘And you stole for a good reason.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why Mum’s being nice to me.’

  Beth snorts. ‘Great. To get into Mum’s good books, I shouldn’t clean my room or help her stack the dishwasher. To be a good daughter I’ve got to plunder the family riches.’

  ‘Sis,’ I say seriously, ‘I don’t think it would work a second time.’

  ‘I know.’ Beth rolls her eyes. ‘I was joking.’

  She puts her arm around my shoulder again and we keep walking. Ryan is leaning against the fence outside school, admiring the tattoo on his forearm.

  ‘See ya, klepto,’ says Beth, as she strides ahead to Ryan. He holds his forearm out so Beth can’t miss the tattoo. It looks like a dragon wrapped around a dagger.

  ‘You did it!’ Beth shouts.

  ‘Yep. It’s called Warlock Dreaming,’ says Ryan.

  ‘Is it real?’

  Ryan blushes. ‘It’ll last for two weeks.’

  I give them space to admire the stick-on thinking please, Trevor, don’t let Beth get a tattoo. Mum and Dad have enough worries.

  17

  jesse

  All morning in class during quiet reading time, I stare at the same page, going over everything that happened yesterday.

  Helping Kelifa made me feel good.

  Stealing from Dad made me feel bad.

  Helping Watson escape from Hunter made me feel good.

  Being scared of Hunter makes me feel bad.

  Does doing something good always come at a high price?

  ‘Hunter, what are you doing?’ Sarah asks.

  ‘Nothing!’ I answer.

  Everyone in class looks at me. Did I just answer to the name of Hunter? I slink down in my chair. ‘Sorry, Sarah, I thought you meant Jesse,’ I mumble.

  ‘Yes, the names do sound very …’ Sarah lets the sentence hang. ‘But I was talking to the other Hunter.’ Everyone turns toward Hunter who is unknowingly holding his book upside down.

  ‘What are you doing, Hunter?’ Sarah repeats.

  ‘I’m not doing nothing,’ he says.

  ‘Anything,’ corrects Sarah.

  ‘What?’ says Hunter.

  ‘You’re not doing anything,’ says Sarah, in a resigned voice.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Hunter says. ‘I’m reading.’

  The brave ones giggle. I keep silent. Hunter holds up the book, ‘What’s this then?’

  ‘It’s a book, Hunter,’ says Sarah.

  Hunter smirks.

  ‘And …’ Sarah stops speaking and sighs. She leans across her desk and picks up the book she was reading. ‘Five minutes more of reading time, class.’ She then elaborately turns her book upside down and pretends to read it.

  A curse comes from the corner where Hunter is sitting. No-one dares look. Sarah smiles at him. She closes her book and walks behind her desk to sit down.

  I raise my hand.

  ‘Yes,’ she pretends to forget my name, ‘Jesse, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sarah, after reading, can we do writing work?’

  Everyone groans, except Sarah and Kate.

  ‘What did you have in mind, Jesse?’

  ‘If he says poetry, I’m going on strike!’ calls Hunter.

  ‘He has a name, Hunter,’ says Sarah.

  ‘Yeah, Bleakboy,’ whispers Hunter. A few students behind me titter.

  ‘Pardon?’ says Sarah.

  Kate raises her hand.

  ‘Why don’t we practise writing letters, Sarah?’ I suggest.

  ‘Emails you mean,’ corrects Skye. ‘No-one writes letters anymore, except old people.’

  ‘And losers,’ adds Hunter.

  ‘Writing letters it is,’ says Sarah. ‘Anyone in particular you want to write to, Jesse?’

  Kate waves her hand, trying to get Sarah’s attention. Sarah ignores her and looks at me.

  ‘I thought we could try writing to the Japanese Embassy, Sarah,’ I say. ‘About the whales.’

  ‘Not the whales again, Sarah,’ pleads Skye.

  ‘To save the whales,’ I add. ‘A letter, an email to …’ I can’t think of the word.

  ‘A protest letter!’ Kate calls out.

  Sarah winces. ‘Kate, raise your hand if you wish to speak.’

  ‘I did.’ Kate raises her hand a little higher and twinkles her fingers as if to convince Sarah.

  Sarah sighs, ‘Okay.’ She looks at the clock over the door. ‘I’ll give you all twenty minutes to write a letter,’ she looks at Kate, ‘to anyone you wish.’

  Kate groans.

  Sarah continues, ‘But the letter has to try to convince a person, or an organisation, to stop doing something harmful to the planet.’

  Kate starts writing before Sarah has finished speaking, her pen flowing across the paper.

  Skye raises her hand.

  ‘Yes, Skye?’

  ‘Can I write an email,’ she glances at Kate, ‘to someone to stop them eating whales?’

  ‘Exactly!’ says Kate. She scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to Skye. Skye takes it, nervously.

  ‘It’s the address of the Japanese Embassy, Skye,’ explains Kate.

  ‘I was talking about writing to you,’ says Skye.

  ‘I don’t eat whales!’ Kate looks horrified. ‘The Japanese, Canadians and Norwegians do. Well, some of them do.’

  ‘Yesterday, you were talking about eating—’

  ‘It was a protest!’ shouts Kate.

  ‘Kate, will you stop shouting,’ pleads Sarah. ‘We get your point.’ Sarah looks at the class. ‘Everyone, please just write.’

  ‘I’m going to do a manga comic,’ says Eoin. ‘The Japanese love manga.’

  ‘They eat comics?’ asks Anastasia, confused.

  ‘No, it’s like B
atman, only with more violence,’ adds Eoin.

  ‘We’ll leave out the violence for today, Eoin,’ says Sarah.

  ‘Sarah, can I use the computer to write my email?’ asks Skye.

  ‘Paper first. If you like the letter, you can transfer it later.’ Sarah sits at her desk, putting her head in her hands.

  Saving the world can be very tiring. And confusing.

  After fifteen minutes, I’ve run out of things to write. I look around the class. Eoin is balancing a pen on his knuckles, his hand extended over his desk, eyes narrowed, concentrating on keeping the pen level. Anastasia is staring at the ceiling, her lips moving in time to a song in her head. She closes her eyes and mimes the words. Skye is looking at her iPhone, hidden under her desk. Sarah is preoccupied drafting her own letter. The only other people still writing are Kate and Hunter.

  Hunter?

  I turn in my chair to get a better look, but his desk is too far away. He’s so involved in what he’s doing, he doesn’t notice me staring. He sure looks different with his bowling-ball haircut. Kate looks up and I motion toward Hunter. She grins, pleased that even Hunter has got into the spirit of protest.

  ‘Have you finished, Jesse?’ Sarah asks.

  Eoin drops his pen and it clatters on the floor. Anastasia stops miming and blushes. Skye hides the iPhone in her pocket. I quickly turn around to face the front. ‘Just searching for inspiration, Sarah.’

  Sarah stands and walks around her desk. Everyone watches except Hunter who is still intently scribbling.

  She walks slowly to the window, smiling at Hunter. We all turn to look. He grips the pen tightly, his face close to the paper. He’s scribbling so aggressively that he holds the page firmly with his left hand to stop it scrunching and tearing.

  ‘Hunter,’ Sarah says, gently.

  Hunter looks up. ‘Yes, Sarah.’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘That’s okay, Sarah. I’m just,’ he elaborately writes a few more words, puts his pen on the desk and adds, ‘finished!’