Pookie Aleera is Not My Boyfriend

  Mr Chambers sprays a mist of water

  on my hair

  and snips on top.

  Grandpop finishes texting

  and slips the phone into his pocket.

  ‘Now, what was I saying?’ he asks.

  Mr Chambers winks at me and says,

  ‘Football, you were talking about footy.’

  LAURA

  Ms Arthur said,

  ‘It’s not

  pop stars

  or actors

  or supermodels

  or celebrities

  or millionaires

  or sports stars

  who are lucky and special . . .

  it’s

  someone who has

  a partner

  a friend

  a parent

  who loves them.’

  I remember her saying that

  when I’m walking home from school

  and I see Mum,

  waving to me

  from the front verandah,

  waiting to take me to Johnson’s Café

  for a strawberry thickshake,

  to celebrate

  her one day off work.

  CAMERON

  Mum was mixing gooey stuff in a bowl

  when I woke up

  and I thought it looked like fun

  so I asked her if I could help,

  you know, stirring it around

  and maybe I could lick the bowl

  when she finished?

  She took off her apron,

  handed it to me

  and helped me tie it behind my back.

  I felt kind of silly wearing it

  but I could wipe my hands on it

  whenever they got sweaty

  from all the stirring I did

  with the wooden spoon.

  It took a lot of mixing before Mum was happy

  with the gluggy goo in the bowl

  and we added some shredded coconut

  and then she let me stir it some more

  while she spread a thin smear of butter

  on a baking tray.

  She checked the oven was the right temperature

  while I dolloped lumps of the mix on the tray.

  She showed me how to press them flat

  with the palm of my hand

  and then let me lick the bowl.

  We slid the tray into the oven

  and set the timer for twenty minutes.

  I sat in front of the stove

  eating my Weet-Bix

  waiting

  smelling

  watching.

  When Mum tipped the biscuits out on the rack

  I couldn’t resist

  even though they were so hot

  I juggled one like a cricket ball

  before taking a huge steaming bite.

  Delicious!

  Mum let me take ten,

  yes, ten Anzac biscuits

  to school

  to share at lunchtime

  with the gang.

  My biscuits I’d baked.

  MICK

  It came to me

  when we were eating Cameron’s biscuits.

  Or ‘biting the bikkies’ as Selina joked.

  They were sweet and crunchy

  and smelt like warm butter.

  I didn’t believe Cameron had baked them

  until I saw him blush

  when we all said how good they were.

  And it came to me,

  out of nowhere,

  this thought,

  this idea I can’t get out of my head.

  In class all afternoon

  I stare out the window thinking of nothing else,

  except this single simple idea.

  Only it’s kind of hard to explain,

  that’s why I keep turning it over in my head.

  It’s got to do with Cameron and his biscuits

  and how we all loved scoffing them

  and

  how it made Cameron feel good sharing,

  and watching us eat them!

  And I remembered yesterday morning,

  Laura watching Mr Korsky laugh,

  and the look on her face.

  That’s when I realised,

  it all made sense

  and I almost fell off my chair

  which happens a bit during maths

  but that’s because I’m usually falling asleep.

  Not this time.

  This time it was my brilliant idea.

  Laura was happy doing something for Mr Korsky.

  Mr Korsky was happy

  with whatever it was she did.

  Cameron was happy sharing Anzacs

  and we were all very, very happy eating them

  and

  and

  and

  that’s when I knew what to do.

  What to say tomorrow at lunchtime

  to the gang

  who think I’m a leader

  when I’m not

  but this time

  maybe I can make a suggestion

  and we can all try my idea

  for a week

  and see what happens.

  CAMERON

  I admit it,

  I don’t usually ride home on Dexter Street,

  where Ms Arthur

  just happens to live

  but

  it’s a nice street

  with no dogs to chase me

  and there’s a scatter of gravel

  where I can practise skids on my bike

  and I can’t help it

  if I glance,

  just casually,

  into Ms Arthur’s yard

  and I’m not really looking for the sports car

  or Pookie Aleera,

  the ponytail man,

  but, I swear,

  if he comes out into the yard

  I’m going to wave and call out his name

  again.

  Maybe I’ll stop and shake his hand,

  introduce myself,

  ‘Hi, I’m Cameron . . .

  and you’re . . .’

  The old lady at the corner house,

  weeding her garden

  waves to me

  every time I pass.

  I wave back,

  keeping a lookout for Pookie.

  ALEX

  On Baxter’s Hill

  the wind bangs the door

  of the ghost house

  as Rachel and I

  stand outside

  staring into the lonely yard

  where the dog chains

  are rusting in the stinkweed

  and every window pane is broken

  and a piece of roofing iron

  flaps like a wounded bird.

  The gate creaks

  as Rachel opens it

  and steps through

  reaching behind for my hand.

  A crow lands on the chimney

  and squawks,

  as if to scare us away.

  Rachel whispers,

  ‘Do you think Mr Baxter would mind?’

  I hope his ghost

  is as hard of hearing as he was.

  The blade grass prickles my legs,

  please don’t let there be snakes,

  or spiders or rats.

  We’re two steps away from the ver
andah

  when the door opens

  with the wind

  and I can see

  all the way down the hallway

  to the kitchen

  where one chair stands beside a table

  waiting,

  and Rachel says, ‘Alex’

  as we reach the front door

  and just as I’m about

  to step into the house

  the wind blows hard

  and slams the door

  like a hammer.

  Rachel screams

  or was it me?

  We both turn and run

  and don’t stop

  until we reach the rock ledge

  on the hill overlooking the ghost house,

  the sweat on the back of my neck

  chills my body

  and Rachel says, ‘Alex’

  and I answer, ‘Yes’

  and she giggles nervously,

  ‘Can we not go inside, please?’

  We both stare

  at Mr Baxter’s house

  and the door opens slowly

  as if daring us to try once more

  and I say to Rachel,

  ‘Okay, let’s not.’

  SELINA

  Today is mufti day

  and we’ve all brought in a gold coin donation

  for World Vision and the starving children

  all over the world

  and

  everyone has worn their favourite clothes.

  Most of the boys wear footy jerseys and jeans

  and

  the girls wear riding pants and boots,

  but

  the two best outfits are

  Ms Arthur

  who wears her old school uniform from Year Twelve,

  ‘Too many years ago,’ she says.

  She looks funny in a tartan skirt

  and a white blouse with matching socks!

  And Cameron wears

  black jeans and a red T-shirt

  with his hair tied back in a ponytail.

  On his T-shirt

  he’s written in black texta,

  ‘Who is Pookie Aleera?’

  When Ms Arthur sees him,

  she giggles and says,

  ‘Nice haircut, Cameron.

  I like a man with a ponytail.’

  Cameron blushes,

  redder than his T-shirt!

  MICK

  When we sit together at lunch today

  Alex asks Cameron

  if he’s got any more biscuits.

  We all look eagerly at Cameron

  who sadly shakes his head.

  No one says anything for a minute,

  all of us thinking of their steaming buttery taste.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ I say, nervously.

  Pete answers quickly,

  ‘Anything to do with food?’

  ‘Not exactly.

  But it could be, if you want.

  It’s the best idea I’ve ever had.’

  Everyone leans forward

  and I wish I hadn’t said that.

  ‘Well, maybe the second best . . .’

  I wait a few seconds,

  just to be sure everyone is listening.

  I keep my voice low,

  ‘We all agree, for one week,

  to be nice to everybody . . .

  and see what happens.’

  I sit back and wait.

  Rachel looks at Alex

  who looks at Pete

  who looks at Cameron

  who looks at Selina

  who stares at me and says,

  ‘So what’s your idea?’

  ‘That’s it,’ I say.

  ‘We be nice to everyone.

  Just for a week.’

  Rachel scratches her head,

  ‘But aren’t we nice all the time?’

  Cameron looks at his empty lunch box,

  ‘I reckon a better idea

  is to make another batch of biscuits!’

  Selina giggles, ‘Yeah, now that’s real nice!’

  I say,

  ‘No. No. No.

  You don’t get it.

  I mean really really nice.

  Let’s go out of our way

  to do something . . . special,

  for someone else

  and see what happens.

  Just for a week.’

  Cameron laughs and says,

  ‘Great idea, Mick. Brilliant!’

  Everyone looks at Cameron.

  I say, ‘Thanks.’

  Cameron giggles,

  ‘That’s okay, I was just being nice.’

  Everyone laughs.

  Even me.

  But we all agree

  to give it a try.

  For one week.

  MICK

  I should make the first move,

  it being my idea.

  So before the bell rings

  for the end of lunch,

  I leave the gang

  and walk to the bench where Laura sits,

  alone, of course.

  As I sit down she closes the book she’s reading

  her eyes looking everywhere all at once

  except at me.

  I’m sure her knees are shaking,

  just like mine.

  I stretch my legs, look at the hole in my right shoe,

  even whistle a little

  just to show I’m relaxed

  and exactly where I want to be

  except

  I have no idea what to say

  to Laura.

  I can hardly ask how the nose is running, can I?

  Two statues on a seat, that’s us.

  I glance at my watch,

  three minutes until the bell.

  I don’t know what to do with my hands

  so I put them under my legs

  to keep them from waving around

  like a lost puppet.

  Laura turns to me and says

  in a quiet voice,

  ‘Is this a dare?’

  I look quickly towards the gang

  afraid they’re all laughing

  or making rude gestures.

  ‘No. No way, Laura.

  I just . . .’

  I haven’t really thought this through, have I?

  She says,

  ‘I don’t need someone to sit beside, you know.’

  She holds up the book

  as if to say she has a friend.

  ‘Yeah. I mean, no.

  I . . . I thought you might like to sit

  with the rest of us.’

  What am I saying?

  Laura looks from me to the gang

  and back to me.

  She’s about to answer

  when the bell rings

  and I jump up

  eager to get away

  but

  that makes me look foolish

  so I sit down again,

  as Laura stands

  and when she looks at me

  I notice the pity

  as if she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.

  All she says is,

  ‘Thanks.’

  She turns to walk to class

  and I call out,

  ‘Maybe tomorrow then.’

  She doesn’t look around.

  Tomorrow is Saturday.
br />   LAURA

  Mum says,

  ‘If in doubt,

  count to ten before answering.’

  But when Mick invited me

  to join his gang,

  I wanted to spring up

  and shout yes!

  But Mum’s voice crept in

  and I waited

  and thought about it.

  Why?

  Why now?

  Why me?

  I didn’t like the answers

  whispering in my head.

  I looked across at his gang.

  They were all doing their best

  not to look this way

  but I couldn’t trust myself

  or them

  or anything except the book in my hands.

  Why did he pick on me?

  I’m happy on the bench,

  it’s my spot,

  my place.

  Why did he pick on me?

  MICK

  In class,

  my mind plays gymnastics.

  She likes a book more than me?

  She likes a hard wooden seat

  better than the grass

  and the gang?

  Ms Arthur wrote twenty questions

  in her flowing handwriting on the board.

  I answered them,

  easy,

  one after the other,

  in my notebook.

  I looked at Laura

  sitting in the third row

  and I asked my own questions,

  and spent the afternoon

  not answering them.

  CAMERON

  I’ve just switched on my new iPad

  that Grandma bought me,

  when Dad knocks on my door

  and asks me if I want to play

  parisian rings in the backyard

  and

  I’ve just linked to a YouTube video

  of these skater dudes doing half-pipes,

  but I don’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings,

  so I mumble about homework

  and Dad says

  we should play parisian rings instead

  if he can suggest ten good reasons.

  So I pause YouTube

  and Dad holds up one finger:

  ‘It’s a beautiful sunny day outside.’

  He holds up two fingers:

  ‘It’s . . . it’s not raining’,

  which is really just the same reason as his first one,

  but I don’t say anything.

  Three fingers:

  ‘It’s . . . it’s more fun than an iPad!’

  I frown.

  He hasn’t seen YouTube lately.

  Dad’s starting to look fidgety,

  like I do in class when I don’t know the answer