Authors: Scot Gardner
A
s
usual
,
I
wa
s
late
.
I
ha
d
dumpe
d
m
y
bik
e
i
n
th
e
shed an
d
mad
e
i
t
t
o
th
e
slidin
g
doo
r
o
f
th
e
breezewa
y
jus
t
as Dennis
’
s
bu
s
pulle
d
up
.
The
y
kne
w
the
y
wer
e
lat
e
an
d
all th
e
suck
s
tha
t
si
t
u
p
th
e
fron
t
o
f
th
e
bu
s
ra
n
dow
n
the ram
p
an
d
inside
.
Excep
t
Dennis
.
H
e
sit
s
i
n
th
e
fron
t
seat behin
d
th
e
drive
r
bu
t
alway
s
manage
s
t
o
b
e
th
e
las
t
one off
.
I
recko
n
h
e
like
s
t
o
watc
h
th
e
girls
’
bum
s
a
s
they’re jumpin
g
dow
n
th
e
stairs
.
Mand
y
catche
s
hi
s
bus
.
I
watche
d
he
r
comin
g
dow
n
th
e
stairs
.
Sh
e
smile
d
hell
o
as sh
e
walke
d
pas
t
m
e
an
d
I
coul
d
smel
l
he
r
.
Sh
e
wears
vanilla
.
I
wa
s
waitin
g
fo
r
i
t
t
o
hi
t
m
e
an
d
ther
e
i
t
was
.
The smel
l
doe
s
funn
y
thing
s
t
o
m
y
insides
.
I
wis
h
I
coul
d
get
a
bottl
e
o
f
tha
t
stuf
f
an
d
spra
y
m
y
roo
m
wit
h
it
.
That
woul
d
b
e
hot.
‘I
saw
you
ogling
he
r
.
Y
ou’re
a
pe
r
v
.’
Dennis
had
crept
out
of
the
bus
and
scared
the
shit
out of
me.
I hope
my
ogling
is
not
as
obvious
to
Mand
y
. He told
me
what
he
did
at
V
enturers
the
night
before
and
I nodded.
He
tells
me
the
same
stuff
eve
r
y
W
ednesda
y
.
I
don
’
t
know
what
he
sees
in
it.
T
o
me
it
looks
like
a
bunch
of little kids
who
don
’
t
have
a
life. Maybe
they
have
troubl
e
talkin
g
t
o
girls
.
De
n
i
s
no
t
reall
y
i
n
either
catego
r
y—the
girls
love
him
and
he
’
s
got
plenty
of
other
stuff
to
do.
Like
I
said,
I
don
’
t
kno
w
.
I
dragged
him by
the
arm
so
we
could
walk
behind Mandy
and
Che
r
yl
Bickerton.
Past
the
bins
in
front
of
the science
block
and
the
bald
patch
of
dirt
where
Mr
Davis
chucked
the
bomb
that
Shane
Grizotto
lit
in
class.
Smoke
bomb.
Filled
the
whole
quadrangle
with
thick
smoke
and
set
off
the
alarms.
W
e
got
to
spend
a
few
hours
on
the
oval and
Griz
got
to
spend
three
days
at
home.
W
anke
r
.
Che
r
y
l
an
d
Mand
y
di
d
a
quic
k
righ
t
int
o
their
homeroom
and
old Mrs
Kneebone
glared
at
us
as we pretended to follow them inside.
Some
teachers
have names
that
are
so
silly
you
can
’
t
twist
them
into
anything. Kneebone.
She
gets
heaps
from
some
kids
about
her moustache
of
thick,
soft
black
hai
r
.
She
’
s
not
really
that old,
just
hai
r
y
.
I
had
her
for
English
last
year
and
she
gave me
some
fun
jobs
after
I’d breezed
through all
the
set work.
Den
and
I
backed
out
of
the
room
and
hurried
off to
face
Mrs
Leave
y
.
‘Sor
r
y
Miss,
the
bus
was
late,’
Dennis
said
flatly
and
headed
to
his
seat.
‘What
’
s
your
excuse,
W
ayne?’
‘Sor
r
y
Miss,’
I
said.
I
batted
my
eyelids
and
shrugged
before
I
sat
down.
She
glared
at
me
and
finished
reading the
message
bulletin.
‘Special
assembly at
lunchtime today—listen
for the announcement
just
before
the
bell
for
fifth
period.’
‘What
for?’
Janine
Clea
r
y
was
annoyed
her
lunchtime would
be
cut
short.
‘I
don
’
t
kno
w
,
Janine.
Best
we
all
just
trot
along
and
find
out.’
My
guess?
Another
drug
bust.
Last
yea
r
,
kids
got
caught
buying
speed
from
a
bloke
in
a
yellow
Escort.
The
bloke finally got
busted
and
a
whole
group
of
kids—six
year tens—got
expelled.
There
was a
joke
going
around
at Chisholm
Catholic
College that
our
school,
Chisholm High,
produced
the
finest
drug
dealers
in
the
state.
Y
eah,
could
be
a
drug
bust.
Could
be
another
award
for
that blind
chick
in
year
eight.
She
’
s
as
smart
as.
Mr
Richards
spoke
to
us
first
and
told
us
he
was
leaving. That
doesn
’
t
sound
so
wild
when
I
say
it
like
that.
How about
.
.
.
Richo,
the
bloke
who
has
been
the
principal
of this
school
since
before
I
was
born,
the
real
gentleman
(the
bloke
who
dated
my
mum
when
she
was
still
Sylvia Kirkwood)
was
throwing
in
the
towel.
He
stood
there
in
the
same
grey
suit
that
he
always
wore
and
a
boring
tie
in blue
with
little
gold
stars.
He
looked
smalle
r
.
Then
Mr
Johnson
took
the
microphone
and
shouted into
it
like
the
idiot
he
is.
Said
he
was
sor
r
y
to
see
Richo
go.
Y
eah,
yeah.
And as the
assistant, he
will step
into Richo
’
s
spot
until
another
principal
is
appointed. Eve
r
yone
hates
Johnson,
the
sleazy
pig.
Last
week
he
suspended
Greg
for
having
smokes
in
his
pencil
case.
Mum
couldn
’
t
believe
it
eithe
r
.
She
stopped
chewing
her mouthful of
lamb
chop
like
someone
had
pressed
her pause
button.
She
put
her
plate
on
the
arm
of
the
couch and
picked
up
the
phone.
I
thought
she
was
going
to
call my
Auntie
Pat
to
spread
the
news.
‘Hello,
Gilbert?’
she
said
and
then
groaned—she
hates answering
machines.
She
knew
Richo
’
s
phone
number
by heart.
‘Hi Gil,
it
’
s
Sylvia
Armond here,
I
was
..
.
W
ayne
just told
me
you
were
leaving
the
school.
I
...
I
hope
eve
r
ything
is
oka
y
.
Give
me
a
call
when
you
get
the
chance.
Y
es,
give
me
a
call.’
She
almost
hung
up
then
said,
‘Sylvia
Kirkwood.
Did
I
say
that?
Anywa
y
,
give
me
a
call.
Bye.’
She
put
the
phone
down
and
burst
into
a
coughing
fit that
lasted
half
a
minute.
Sometimes
when
she
’
s
coughing she
sounds
like
the
V
elos’
tabby
bringing up
a
fur ball.
Disgusting.
She wiped
her
mouth
on
the
towel
she
keeps near
the
remote
and
continued
her
tea.
Sale
of
the
Centu
r
y
started
and
she
turned
up
the
volume.
I
scoffed
the
last
mouthful of my
potato and
half-kissed,
half-wiped
my mouth
on
her
hair
as
I
bolted
for
the
doo
r
.
Halfway
to
Game
Zone
I
decided
Den
would
have
to
wait.
The
sun
had
just
disappeared
and
eve
r
ything
was
orange.
As
I
pedalled
up
to
the
war
memorial
I
wished
I had
a
camera.
The
glow
from
the
sunset
had
painted
half of
the
digger
’
s
face,
half
of
his
concrete
coat
and
exactly half
of
his
rifle
,
which
was
propped
with
the
butt
on
the marble
pedestal.
The
rest
of
him
was
in
silhouette.
I
sat
and
watched
him
do
absolutely
nothing for
a
minute
or
so.
Statues
do
that
so
well.
This
bloke
looked
tired
and proud.
When
I
was
little
I reckoned
statues
were
people
who
had
been
turned
to
stone.
There
’
s
no
way
a person could
ca
r
ve
anything
that
real
looking
from
rock.
No
wa
y
. I
sat
back
on
the
seat
of
my
bike
and
lit
up
one
of
the
Peter
Jackson
12s
that
I’d
botted
off
Dennis,
out
of
respect
for
the
wea
r
y
stone
soldie
r
.
Whe
n
I
go
t
t
o
Gam
e
Zone
,
Denni
s
wa
s
waitin
g
ou
t
the
front
.
H
e
wa
s
ne
r
vousl
y
puffin
g
o
n
th
e
las
t
o
f
a
smoke an
d
I
coul
d
tel
l
i
t
wa
s
hi
m
fro
m
th
e
corne
r
o
f
Howard
A
venue
.
Hi
s
bod
y
i
s
lon
g
an
d
h
e
alway
s
wear
s
black
—
blac
k
tracksui
t
pants
,
blac
k
shir
t
an
d
a
blac
k
leather bikie
’
s
ves
t
h
e
mus
t
wea
r
t
o
bed
.
Hi
s
ski
n
i
s
pal
e
an
d
his hai
r
i
s
black
,
straigh
t
an
d
shin
y
.
Mand
y
reckon
s
he
’
s
spooky-looking
.
De
n
love
s
it
.
H
e
tol
d
m
e
onc
e
tha
t
he
coul
d
shapeshif
t
int
o
differen
t
animals—
I
don
’
t
thin
k
I
believ
e
him.