Pookie Aleera is Not My Boyfriend

  to a question Ms Arthur has just asked.

  Four fingers:

  ‘Your mother . . . won’t play with me!’

  We both giggle.

  Dad relaxes.

  Five fingers:

  ‘We can’t throw an iPad forty metres in the house!’

  Six fingers:

  ‘I’m bored!’

  Seven fingers:

  ‘I need to lose weight.’

  Eight fingers:

  ‘My dad threw a cricket ball with me

  when I was your age!’

  Nine fingers:

  ‘I need an excuse not to mow the lawn!’

  Ten fingers:

  ‘Did I mention it was a beautiful day?’

  I turn off my iPad.

  Me and Dad play parisian rings

  until it gets dark

  and we beat our record

  of one hundred and fifteen throws

  without dropping it once,

  when Mum calls out to Dad,

  ‘Don’t forget you promised

  to mow the lawn today!’

  PETE

  After Sunday lunch,

  Nan goes out to the garden

  with a pair of scissors

  and cuts a single flower

  a rose

  and she slowly walks

  across the paddock to Grandpa’s grave,

  the flower in one hand

  her walking cane in the other.

  She sits on the cool granite

  and places the flower in the vase

  next to his headstone

  then she sings Grandpa a song.

  Nan’s voice

  floats on the wind,

  as fragile as glass

  and

  as sad as loneliness

  and Mum stops washing the dishes

  and listens

  from the kitchen window.

  SELINA

  Ms Arthur wears a football jersey to school

  even though it isn’t mufti day.

  It has red and blue stripes

  and when Cameron raises his hand

  and asks the name of the team she supports,

  Ms Arthur smiles

  and instead of answering,

  she asks Cameron and me to draw the curtains

  on either side of the classroom

  and she shows us a video on the Smart Board.

  It’s highlights of her football team

  and Ms turns down the commentary

  and tells us the story of their best player

  who scores lots of goals in the video

  and how when he was twelve years old

  he could barely walk

  because he had a growth hormone deficiency

  (she writes it on the whiteboard).

  No one would give him a chance

  to do what he wanted

  which was to play football

  except this one club in Spain

  that had a special school

  that taught football differently than anywhere else

  and the teachers saw this boy was special

  and they accepted him into their family

  and now

  he’s the most famous footballer in the world

  who earns millions of dollars

  and his name is Lionel Messi

  and the club is FC Barcelona

  and they’re world champions

  and Ms Arthur stops the video

  and points to the logo on her shirt

  which reads

  UNICEF

  and she tells us that

  instead of taking money for sponsorship

  like every sporting club in the world

  Barcelona gives money

  to the United Nations Children’s Fund

  and then she giggles

  and bites her lip as if she wants to tell us

  something else about them . . .

  we wait . . .

  and wait . . .

  and finally, Cameron says,

  ‘Come on, Ms, what else?’

  And Ms Arthur giggles again

  and says that the supporters of her team

  are nicknamed ‘Cules’

  which in Spanish

  is a rude word for bottom

  or bum

  because when the club started

  their stadium was so old

  that the supporters would sit

  with their bottoms hanging over the rafters.

  We all laugh

  and, sure enough,

  Cameron raises his hand

  and says,

  ‘Ms, I’d like to be a bum too!’

  RACHEL

  Monday lunchtime.

  The gang sits in a circle,

  each of us with a smile bigger than Uluru.

  Everyone has a parcel on their lap,

  except Mick,

  who nervously looks towards Laura,

  still on her seat.

  Alex looks at me and says,

  ‘You first.’

  Everyone fumbles with their parcels,

  all of us eager, at the same time.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Let’s open them together.’

  We’ve all spent the weekend

  thinking

  what to do

  to be nice to each other,

  Mick’s idea.

  All weekend.

  Selina nods

  and I count to three.

  The five of us unwrapping together.

  Nervous giggles.

  Selina, Cameron, Pete, Alex and me,

  everyone has the same surprise

  which isn’t a surprise at all.

  Five batches of freshly baked biscuits.

  Mick says,

  ‘Mum was out of flour . . .’

  We count them.

  Seventy-four biscuits.

  Too many to eat in a week of lunchtimes.

  Alex puts the lid on his container and asks,

  ‘What do we do?’

  Silence.

  Mick slowly grins.

  He reaches across and lifts two from my cake tin.

  I nod.

  He says,

  ‘Maybe Laura is hungry?’

  He stands and takes a deep breath.

  As he walks away, I understand.

  I gather my tin and

  ask Alex if he wants to make friends

  with the Year Fours playing cricket.

  Selina walks to the staffroom.

  Pete says,

  ‘Year Fives will eat anything, I reckon!’

  And Cameron spies Jacob with the Infants,

  adding, ‘Jacob’s always hungry!’

  It’s the best lunchtime I’ve ever had.

  Me and Alex giving biscuits

  to the sweaty kids in Year Four!

  LAURA

  I could smell the warm yeasty aroma

  before he sat down

  next to me

  on Mr Korsky’s seat.

  He handed me one

  without saying a word.

  My first impulse was to say no.

  No thanks.

  My voice caught in my throat

  as he held it nearer

  and I took it quickly.

  He took a big bite

  and said,

  with his mouth
half-full,

  ‘Rachel baked them. Not me.

  If you’re worried . . .

  about food poisoning.’

  I giggled.

  Then I took a big bite to stop myself

  from laughing at Mick Dowling

  sitting beside me on the seat,

  more nervous than me.

  I chewed slowly

  with my mouth closed

  like Mum says I should.

  ‘It’s . . . delicious, Mick.’

  I said his name,

  like we’re friends.

  He looked at the half-eaten biscuit in his hands

  as if it could tell him what to say next.

  He smiled,

  ‘I can get you another one . . . if you want?

  Geez . . . I can get another fifty!’

  I shake my head, quickly.

  And then I decide what to do

  when I get home this afternoon.

  Chocolate crackles.

  Mum’s recipe.

  For tomorrow.

  For Mick

  and his friends.

  CAMERON

  Me and Jacob

  eat one biscuit each

  just to make sure they taste okay.

  They taste better than okay!

  So we call the Kindy kids

  playing on the monkey bars

  and, pretty soon,

  there are too many children to count

  pleading for a biscuit

  and I have no idea what to do,

  the kids swarming like ants over a sugar bowl!

  Jacob whispers into my ear,

  ‘Half the size, half a biscuit.’

  I give him the tin to hold

  while I break each biscuit in half

  and hand them

  to the giggling kids

  who don’t seem to mind sharing.

  When all the Infants have

  gone back to the playground

  and left me and Jacob

  with an empty tin,

  Jacob grins and says,

  ‘Do you reckon, if I came over to your place,

  you could teach me how to bake them, Cameron?’

  CONSTABLE DAWE

  ‘Good morning Class 6A,

  hands up if you remember my name.

  Good, that’s everyone . . .

  except the boy at the back.

  Can anyone give him a hint, perhaps?

  Yes, thank you for all pointing at the door.

  Very imaginative,

  my name is Senior Constable Dawe,

  spelt D-A-W-E.

  That’s right,

  still Senior.

  There is no Super Senior rank, I’m afraid.

  Today,

  we’re talking about bushfire safety,

  but we agreed last time

  to call it bushwalker safety.

  Please don’t mention bunyips.

  When camping, what’s the best way

  to prevent a bushfire?

  Yes, camp in your bedroom,

  or in the backyard,

  but what about in the bush?

  What should you do with your camp fire?

  Yes, have a big barbecue,

  but afterwards?

  Yes, of course,

  eat all the sausages!

  I mean after you’ve finished with the camp fire,

  why are you giggling, young man?

  What is so funny?

  You’ve remembered how your dad

  put out the camp fire,

  well,

  please share it with us all.

  He what!

  He did that on a camp fire!

  I’m sorry, toilet humour is not appropriate.

  Yes, even if it did extinguish the camp fire

  but

  a bucket of water from the river

  would work just as well.

  Now settle down, Class 6A,

  we have established

  that putting out the camp fire is important,

  this giggling is really not getting us anywhere.

  What happens if you’re caught in a bushfire?

  Yes, this time you do run like heck, young man.

  But where?

  Away from the fire.

  Yes, very sensible and logical.

  To the river . . . good.

  To a patch of ground without grass or trees, yes.

  No, not up a tree, young man.

  You’re not being chased by a bear.

  Yes, I know bears don’t exist in Australia.

  Koalas aren’t bears, young lady.

  And being chased by a koala

  is hardly life-threatening, is it?

  Do not run uphill,

  fires move faster uphill than down.

  Look for a road or a gully without vegetation.

  Yes, call the fire brigade, that’s correct.

  Who knows what number to call?

  No, not 911,

  that’s in America, children.

  Surely we know,

  yes, of course, 000.

  And tell the person, calmly, where you are.

  No, screaming “I’m in a bushfire” won’t help.

  Try to locate a landmark.

  Finally,

  and I really don’t want to go into this too much,

  but what clothes should we wear

  when walking in the bush,

  and before anyone says it,

  yes, underwear,

  let’s all have clean underwear on,

  just in case.

  What else, Class 6A?

  No, swimmers are not necessary.

  Yes, I know I said to run into the river,

  but keep your clothes on this time,

  to protect against the fire.

  What should you always wear on your feet

  when bushwalking?

  Shoes.

  Not thongs, not barefoot, but good leather shoes.

  I’m sorry your mum doesn’t wear leather

  because she’s vegetarian, young lady.

  Yes, we all want to save the world, young lady,

  each in our own way.

  So, are we agreed, Class 6A,

  while bushwalking,

  wear good protective clothing,

  and in a bushfire,

  run towards a river

  or open ground without vegetation,

  and yes,

  throw water on the camp fire.

  Okay,

  pee on a camp fire

  if it makes you and your dad happy, young man!

  Thank you Class 6A,

  that’s my last talk for this term.

  It’s been . . .

  enlightening.’

  LAURA

  I put four cups of Rice Bubbles

  in Mum’s mixing bowl

  sprinkle a dash of cocoa

  and then more cocoa

  and then even more because

  too much chocolate is never enough.

  I add a cup of icing sugar

  and some melting rich Copha

  the way Mum told me

  when I rang her at work.

  She asked me if I needed anything

  and I suggested another packet of Rice Bubbles

  just in case

  my recipe turns into torture.

  I mix everything together

&n
bsp; for exactly fifteen minutes

  until my arms ache.

  I sprinkle coconut on top and mix again.

  I wonder if Mick likes crackles?

  Everyone likes crackles!

  One good turn deserves another.

  I spoon the mix into patty cake papers

  and slide the tray into the fridge.

  I sit in the kitchen

  waiting for them to set

  wishing

  fridges had glass doors

  so I could watch

  and check

  and hope

  that they taste as good as they look.

  CAMERON

  I ring her mobile

  and when she answers

  I act surprised and say,

  ‘Oh, hi, it’s you!

  I meant to ring Mick.’

  And she says,

  ‘Who is this?’

  And I’m so nervous,

  I answer, ‘It’s me.’

  She giggles,

  which is a start, I guess,

  and says,

  ‘Hello me,’

  and I say, ‘Hi’ again,

  just to be polite

  and then we both giggle

  and I say I was going to ask Mick

  if he’d like to meet me down at the river

  near the campground for a swim

  and maybe have a thickshake

  at Johnson’s Café

  and she says,

  ‘I like thickshakes.’

  And I blush bright red

  but that’s okay

  because I’m hiding underneath our house

  where I know I won’t be seen

  and I say,

  ‘Why don’t we meet in an hour?’

  and she giggles again

  and says,

  ‘Sure.’

  Then we both go silent

  for a million minutes

  until I say,

  ‘Great, I’ll see you then.’

  And she says,

  ‘See you then, me.’

  JACOB

  Me and Mick sit on the back verandah

  watching our dog Skip chase the ball

  every time Mick throws it,

  no matter where he hurls it.

  I didn’t know Skip could swim so well.

  Or Mick could throw the ball

  all the way to the dam.

  Mick keeps smiling to himself

  and I know it isn’t because Skip

  gets soaking wet

  and shakes dam water

  all over us,

  the easiest way to cool down in summer.

  It’s because of the biscuits,

  Mick’s brilliant idea.