Bleakboy and Hunter Stand Out in the Rain Page 7

  ‘I’m very impressed, Hunter,’ says Sarah, beaming. ‘Would you like to read it aloud to the class?’

  ‘Sure would!’ Hunter stands at his desk. ‘Out front, or here?’ he asks.

  Sarah smiles. ‘At your desk is fine.’ No-one can believe what we’re hearing. Hunter eager to read aloud in class! Hunter waits until the hum of expectation quietens.

  He coughs, theatrically. ‘I tried to think of the best way to get the Japanese Government to stop killing whales.’ He looks up at Sarah. Kate gives me the thumbs up.

  ‘Very good, Hunter. Continue.’

  ‘Dear Japanese Government and all whale eaters.’ Hunter looks up again.

  Sarah nods encouragingly.

  In a loud voice, Hunter continues, ‘If you don’t stop killing and eating whales, our army is going to invade your country and blow everybody up! We’re going to drop bombs on your buildings and maybe even those schools that cook whales in the canteen. We’ll get the Americans to invade as well. It’ll be your worst nightmare, thousands of Americans running wild, like in gridiron, only with guns.’ Hunter pauses, taking a deep breath. ‘You won’t have to worry—’

  ‘Hunter,’ says Sarah.

  ‘—about eating whales then because you’ll all be dead.’ Hunter’s voice gets louder with every word he says. ‘And it serves you right for killing such a beautiful big fat animal like a whale. Dear Minister, do you want to be invaded?’

  ‘Hunter, please!’ says Sarah, her voice rising.

  Hunter continues, intently, ‘Do you want to see your country bombed—’

  ‘Stop!’ Sarah shouts, her face turning red with the effort, and the thought of Japan being obliterated across the pages of Hunter’s essay.

  Hunter looks up. ‘But I’ve got another page to go, Sarah.’

  Sarah draws a deep, slow breath. ‘I understand, but killing people is—’

  ‘I’m not killing people, Sarah. I’m threatening. It’s the only way to save the whales,’ says Hunter. He looks around the classroom, for support. Everyone is pale. Skye looks as if she’s going to be sick at any moment. I glance at the door, wondering if she’ll make it outside. I stand and walk to the window, opening it wide. A fresh breeze blows through the killing fields of our classroom. A little colour returns to Skye’s face.

  Sarah coughs. ‘Thank you, Hunter, for your contribution.’ Her eyes flit from student to student and finally settle on Kate, who has raised her hand, again.

  ‘Yes, Kate?’ she asks.

  ‘I think threatening people … defeats the idea of …’ Kate stammers.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Kate. I don’t think Hunter really wanted to—’

  ‘It works every time,’ says Hunter. He sits back in his chair, satisfied.

  ‘But it’s not what we do in school, is it, Hunter,’ Sarah says, not expecting an answer.

  ‘If anyone eats whales at lunchtime, Sarah, just call me,’ answers Hunter.

  ‘I don’t think anyone in this school will be eating whales. Remember our no-meat policy.’ Everyone nods, except Skye, who raises her hand.

  ‘Skye?’ Sarah says.

  ‘Is leather meat, Sarah?’

  Everyone looks down at their feet to check their shoes. Today, I have black Dunlop Volleys, made of canvas. I lean down low at my desk to peek at Sarah’s boots. Black and shiny and … dance music starts to signal lunchtime.

  Sarah lets out a deep breath. ‘We’ll do maths after lunch.’ She looks at me. ‘No questions asked.’

  18

  HUNTER

  After school, Hunter sits on the grass under the maple tree in Elkhorn Park. The woman wearing a grey tracksuit and white headband is doing sit-ups, her personal trainer holding her ankles together, as she struggles to lift her torso off the ground. Sweat stains darken her shirt. The trainer says, ‘Just five more.’

  Hunter leans back against the tree trunk. He wonders what the woman is thinking, whether she’s dreaming about a late afternoon tea of sweet apple pie and a coffee, as a treat after all that effort. Or whether she’ll struggle home and consume a handful of nuts, determined to lose weight no matter what.

  ‘No bags to throw around today, young man,’ says a voice from beside Hunter. It’s the old man on the mobility scooter. Hunter checks the man’s shopping basket on the handlebars. Only a newspaper today.

  ‘I was helping a friend,’ Hunter says.

  ‘Mmm,’ says the old man. He looks across at the woman and the personal trainer, ‘Do you suppose anyone enjoys all that effort?’

  ‘Yep. The trainer who gets paid for telling her what to do. What a job,’ says Hunter.

  The old man smiles. ‘Do you get told what to do?’

  Hunter shrugs, ‘Sometimes.’ He thinks of his dad and the frisbee. ‘Doesn’t mean I’ll do it though,’ Hunter adds.

  The old man laughs until he starts coughing. He takes a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and coughs into it again. As he returns the hankie, he says, ‘People tell me what to do’.

  ‘But you’re an adult,’ says Hunter. He can’t imagine who’d have the courage to boss this old man around.

  The old man scoffs, ‘Old people and children. We’re not so different.’

  The trainer offers his hand to the woman and helps her up. They set off on a jog around the park. The trainer leads, skipping, clapping his hands over his head and star-jumping, exhorting the woman to do the same. The woman follows in stumbling imitation.

  ‘It’s always the relatives,’ says the old man. ‘They think they know better.’ He shakes his head, as if trying to clear his mind of the thought. He moves his scooter closer to Hunter and holds out his hand.

  ‘My name’s Les.’

  Hunter stands and shakes the old man’s hand.

  ‘Hunter.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Hunter.’ The old man reaches for his pipe and considers lighting it, before putting it back into his pocket. He cracks his knuckles and rests his hands on the handlebars.

  ‘Here’s the deal, Hunter. I’ll tell you one thing that annoys me,’ the old man says, ‘and you can do the same. And I mean really let rip. Swear if you want. Just get it off your chest.’

  Hunter shrugs, not sure he wants to tell a stranger, even someone who’s introduced himself, his thoughts. He says, ‘Okay.’

  The old man laughs. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I hate it when people in shops, or in the street talk really slowly to me, as if I’m stupid. As if being stuck on this scooter for half the day has somehow slowed my brain.’ The old man tugs his right ear. ‘I don’t mind when they raise their voices,’ he continues. ‘I’m a bit deaf, so that’s okay. I’m feeble of bone, not brain.’ The old man cracks his knuckles again. ‘Pretty soon, they’ll be imitating baby talk to me. I swear the first time that happens,’ he clenches his fist in frustration, ‘I’ll …’ He stops talking, takes a deep breath, removes the pipe from his pocket and lights it. He leans back in his scooter and looks into the distance.

  A bus pulls up and two teenage schoolgirls get out. Both are listening to iPods through earplugs. They wave to each other and set off in opposite directions. As one girl walks along the path near Hunter and Les, her phone rings. She answers in a loud voice, her iPod competing with the phone. ‘What?’ she shouts. She listens intently to the phone, before switching off her iPod and answering. ‘He didn’t. Really? That is so …’ A voice crackles from her phone. Hunter thinks of his own phone in his pocket, wondering if he has any messages from Mum.

  Les watches the girl walking away. ‘Do you know the word I hate most in the English language?’ he says.

  Hunter shakes his head.

  ‘I,’ pronounces Les. ‘IPhone, iPod, iPad, I, I,’ his voice rises. ‘It’s the ugliest word invented.’ He leans close as if he’s about to tell a secret. ‘And we is the most beautiful. The sooner society learns we instead of I …’ Les laughs to himself. ‘But what am I saying? You were about to tell me the one thing that irritates you
, young man.’

  Hunter sighs. He’d like to tell the old man about his dad leaving and what he really thinks of school. It would certainly include lots of swearwords.

  ‘One thing that irks you?’ says Les.

  Hunter jumps up, reaching for his schoolbag.

  ‘I got a hundred things.’ He takes a few steps away from the old man and pulls out his phone, holding it up. ‘Maybe next time, okay?’ He waves and then runs, his bag swinging against his side, almost tripping him as he reaches the path beside the creek. He doesn’t stop running until he’s out of sight, sure that he’s alone.

  He takes a deep breath, drops his bag on the path and spits into the creek. He sees a lizard scurry for cover near his feet and closes his eyes.

  He remembers his father smiling as he told Hunter about his plans for New Zealand. He remembers the promises his father made, hovering just out of reach, like a spinning frisbee.

  19

  jesse

  ‘Dinner,’ Mum calls down the hallway.

  Trevor and I have been having a one-sided debate about whether Hunter’s idea of threatening thousands of people in order to save the whales made sense. We agreed it didn’t, but neither of us volunteered to point this out to Hunter. Trevor preached that every life is sacred, human or animal. I didn’t want to mention the loaves and fishes. Maybe it should have been the loaves and lentils?

  I follow Beth into the kitchen. In the centre of the dining table is one candle, casting a feeble light. Dad closes all the curtains as Mum serves the food.

  Beth sits down and looks at the small serving of boiled rice on her plate. ‘What’s this?’ she asks.

  ‘Rice, sis,’ I say.

  ‘I know that, fool.’

  ‘Beth, don’t call Jesse a fool,’ says Mum. ‘It’s your dinner.’

  ‘Is that all?’ says Beth.

  ‘No, of course not,’ says Mum.

  Beth relaxes.

  Mum walks to the kitchen bench and picks up a small saucepan, tips the contents into a bowl and brings it to the table. She puts it next to the candle, so we can see what’s in the bowl. It looks like four potatoes.

  ‘Potatoes,’ says Beth, predictably enough.

  ‘Actually, no,’ says Mum. ‘They’re yams, a staple food in Africa.’

  Everyone looks at me.

  ‘In honour of our donation,’ says Dad, ‘we thought we’d have a typical African meal.’

  ‘Just like …’ Mum looks at me.

  ‘Kelifa,’ I say.

  ‘This is probably what he’s sitting down to right now,’ says Mum, cupping her hand over the candle. ‘They’re huddled around one flickering candle, just like us.’

  Beth makes a noise.

  ‘Don’t growl at the dinner table, Beth,’ says Mum. ‘Be grateful for the food.’

  A puff of wind blows out the candlelight.

  ‘At least now I don’t have to look at what I’m eating,’ mumbles Beth.

  Dad scrapes back his chair and feels his way to the kitchen. ‘Honey, do you know where the matches— OW!’

  It sounds like Dad’s head is arguing with the cupboard. Mum gets up and turns on the kitchen light. Dad is sitting on the cork floor, rubbing his head. ‘I wonder if Kelifa’s dad walks into cupboards,’ he says.

  Mum helps him to his feet and brings a box of matches to the table. She lights the candle again.

  ‘Some people think candlelight is very,’ Mum looks lovingly toward Dad, ‘romantic.’

  Beth growls again.

  ‘Jesse,’ Mum says, ‘your father and I thought we’d have this special meal tonight because we looked at our budget and …’ Mum casts a worried look toward Dad.

  ‘Ha!’ says Beth.

  ‘Aren’t we going to send Kelifa something?’ I plead, fearing the worst.

  ‘He can have my yam,’ suggests Beth.

  ‘Remember what we said last night about instalments,’ interrupts Dad, still feeling for a lump on his head.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘but we’re still going to send Kelifa some money?’

  ‘Apart from the fifty dollars already,’ says Beth, who is obviously taking her hunger out on me and Kelifa.

  ‘Your mother,’ Dad looks toward Mum.

  ‘My hours got reduced at the cafe today, Jesse,’ Mum says. ‘Now, it’s only three days a week, starting Wednesday.’

  I look worryingly at Dad. ‘What about your job? You haven’t been sacked have you?’ Dad is the complaints officer at the local council. Maybe someone complained about him!

  He attempts a laugh. ‘No such luck, Jesse.’ He reaches across the table and touches my hand. ‘But, I’m afraid it will have to be only fifty dollars this month for your African friend. And maybe another fifty next month, if things start looking up.’ He looks at me. ‘But, it can’t be long term.’

  I feel bad making Mum and Dad worry about Kelifa and me. It’s not their fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who started all this.

  ‘We don’t have to send any more money.’ I bite my lip, hoping Kelifa and Trevor will forgive me.

  ‘Great,’ interrupts Beth. ‘I need a new dress for the weekend. Ryan’s—’

  ‘No, Jesse,’ says Mum. ‘We all need to think of others.’ She looks at Beth.

  ‘I am thinking of others, Mum. Imagine Ryan having to see me in the same clothes day after day. I was hoping to surprise him,’ says Beth.

  ‘The sewing machine is in your father’s workshop, Beth. I’d be happy to buy you some dress material,’ answers Mum.

  Beth rolls her eyes. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘I’m sure Kelifa doesn’t get new clothes,’ says Mum.

  ‘He’s a boy in Africa! He’s not going to see The Scrambles on the weekend!’

  ‘Who, or what are The Scrambles?’ asks Mum.

  ‘They sound like a death-metal band,’ says Dad.

  ‘Death what?’ asks Mum.

  ‘I saw it on a documentary,’ explains Dad. ‘They wear black clothes, play distorted guitars and growl.’

  ‘That explains a lot,’ says Mum, glancing at Beth.

  ‘The Scrambles sing folk songs, Mum.’ Beth looks my way, daring me to contradict her. ‘They write about animals and peace and hope and …’ her voice peters out.

  ‘Yeah, they’re actually a harmony death-metal band,’ I add. No point in Beth suffering any more torment. Not after the strains of tonight’s dinner. The yam on my plate looks sad and lonely and not very nourishing. Poor Kelifa, having to eat that every day. I scoop some plain rice onto my fork and take a big mouthful. I hope fifty dollars allows his dad to buy sauce to flavour his rice. A piece of long-grain gets stuck in my teeth. I reach for a glass of water.

  ‘So The Scrambles are a Beth-metal band?’ Dad grins.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Mum, not really in the mood for jokes, ‘we thought we’d have this dinner to better understand the plight of children elsewhere in the world.’ She looks at me. ‘And Jesse, we’ll see about next month’s donation. Maybe we can have this dinner once a week. That’ll save us some money.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, scooping another forkful of rice into my mouth.

  ‘I’m eating at Ryan’s next week,’ says Beth.

  I wonder if Kelifa has friends in the village where he lives: friends he can visit for dinner when he’s bored of a scoop of rice and a yam, rich friends who keep chickens and have eggs, friends who can afford electric lights and maybe even a radio. Or a television.

  Beth sprinkles extra salt and pepper on her yam before mushing it up with her fork and mixing it with the rice. ‘Baby food,’ she mumbles.

  The candle flickers again, but doesn’t go out.

  20

  jesse

  It’s lunchtime at school and I’ve picked up a burning cigarette from the path.

  ‘Jesse James Jones!’

  I swallow quickly, my throat feeling as if it’s on fire.

  ‘Jesse! What on earth are you doing with that cigarette?’

  I hide it be
hind my back, but I don’t think that’s the answer Rachel, the year four teacher, expects.

  ‘Nothing, miss.’ Smoke drifts around my head, like a guilty halo.

  Rachel steps forward, a look of concern furrowing her brow.

  ‘Jesse, you know we don’t address teachers like that at this school.’

  ‘Sorry, Rachel,’ I say in a quiet voice, hoping the cigarette has burned out.

  ‘First names only,’ Rachel says. She steps closer, holding out her hand. I’m so nervous, I’m not sure if she wants to shake my hand or take my cigarette. Correction, take Hunter’s cigarette. I decide to offer the cigarette. My hand is shaking as I hand it over.

  ‘Smoking is very serious, Jesse.’

  ‘And bad for your health,’ I add, coughing. Why would anyone be stupid enough to smoke?

  ‘Why were you smoking, Jesse?’ Rachel asks, as if reading my mind.

  ‘I wasn’t, miss. I mean, Rachel,’ I answer.

  She raises both eyebrows and holds up the butt.

  ‘I was …’ I’m doomed. If I tell her the truth, Hunter will give me an atomic wedgie and toss my backpack under the school bus. If I lie, I’ll be given detention for smoking and Larry will send a letter home. That will mean a week of dinner lectures on the evils of smoking from Mum and Dad.

  Disco music signals the end of lunchtime. Rachel looks across at the kids all running back to class.

  ‘I won’t do it again, Rachel,’ I plead.

  The sound Rachel makes at the back of her throat is either because she doesn’t believe me or she’s as overwhelmed by smoke as I am. I check the butt in her fingers. It’s extinguished. She doesn’t believe me.

  ‘Honest, Rachel,’ I say. ‘You’d have to be an idiot to want to smoke. It smells like—’

  She raises an eyebrow. Have I just admitted to smoking?

  ‘—smoke,’ I finish, in a meek voice.

  She holds the butt in her hands as if it’s dynamite, about to explode at any minute.

  ‘I was about to put it in the rubbish bin, Rachel, when you saw me. I didn’t want to start a bushfire,’ I explain.

  The disco beat fades. We should be in our classrooms now, Rachel standing in front of year four and me in the second row, beside Kate and Skye, in front of Hunter at his desk near the window where he can watch for bushfires caused by him flicking cigarettes at people during lunchtime.