‘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 behind 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.
That’s the truth I can’t tell Rachel.
Hunter was leaning against the gum tree near the path leading up to Panthurst Lookout, blowing smoke rings when I stumbled upon him. I was fetching a tennis ball for a year two kid. This part of the bush is out of bounds but Tessa Biltoff asked me to get the ball for her. I couldn’t say no because she was about to cry.
When I threw it back to her, she waved and ran back to the play area, leaving me alone with Hunter.
‘Hey, Bleakboy,’ Hunter sneered, the cigarette between his fingers, tucked into his palm, to stop the smoke rising.
‘Betcha can’t blow smoke rings,’ he said.
I didn’t have an answer for that, so I just stood there.
‘You’d be too scared to even have a drag,’ he challenged.
I glanced quickly toward the school buildings. No teachers about.
‘I dare you,’ he said.
‘It causes cancer,’ I mumbled.
‘Your face causes cancer!’ Hunter shot back.
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ I answered.
‘Your face doesn’t make sense,’ Hunter said.
This could go on forever.
Hunter took another drag and shaped his mouth to imitate a goldfish blowing smoke rings. As the largest ring floated into the air, he put his hand through it and smirked.
‘I’m a genius,’ he said.
I should have walked away at that moment.
‘Have you ever done anything bad in your life?’ Hunter asked.
Apart from stealing Dad’s credit card, I once tried to eat Mum’s earring, but I was only two years old at the time. Luckily I didn’t swallow. And singing along with a rap song when I was six didn’t impress Mum. I didn’t know the lyrics were all swearwords. And once I pretended to be sick to avoid visiting Aunty Trish, who hugs too tightly and has bad breath.
‘You’re so good, you’re invisible,’ added Hunter. He took a final drag of the cigarette and flicked the butt toward me. I jumped out of the way and it landed on the path.
‘See ya,’ he said, walking away.
The cigarette burned at my feet, smoke drifting upward. I should have stepped on it. Instead, I picked it up and held it close to my nose, sniffing the tobacco. I wiped the butt on my black t-shirt. I didn’t want to taste Hunter’s spit.
Just one drag.
An experiment.
To see if smoking was as bad as everyone said.
I gingerly lifted the butt toward my mouth, closing my eyes to concentrate.
No!
I couldn’t do it. Not because it was wrong, or bad for me. But because the thought of Hunter’s spit was too much to bear. I opened my eyes and looked straight at Rachel calling out my name.
I trudge home from school, relieved that Rachel didn’t write a letter to my parents. I got two lunch detentions and a stern warning. All afternoon I imagined what Mum and Dad would say if they found out. First stealing the credit card, now smoking. Trying to be good was certainly turning out bad. Even Trevor couldn’t solve this latest problem. He’d stare down from the wall at me, disappointed.
‘I’ve got it,’ calls Kate, running to catch up.
‘Huh?’ I mumble. Normally I’d say pardon. Even my manners are turning against me.
‘We’ll picket the embassy!’ she announces.
It sounds illegal.
Kate skips beside me. ‘I saw it on the news once. Hundreds of people stood outside this building, holding banners and shouting.’ She holds up both hands as if she’s carrying a banner and shouts, ‘Save the whales NOW!’
An old lady walking her dog ahead of us turns in fright. She grips her handbag. The dog wags its tail. I try to look as friendly as possible. The dog growls. Maybe it’s one of those police dogs that can spot a criminal at ten paces.
‘It’ll be fun,’ says Kate. ‘Sarah can call it a school excursion. We can make the banners in art class.’
Our school has some unusual ideas, but I can’t see them accepting a day of criminal activity as an alternative to maths and geography.
‘And what happens after we shout for a few hours?’ I ask.
Kate looks uncertain. ‘I don’t know. The Japanese stop whaling, I guess.’ Kate brightens. ‘I’ll do some reading about it tonight. And tomorrow we’ll ask Sarah.’
‘We?’
‘Come on, Jesse. You’re the only one I can trust,’ she pleads. She grabs my hand and squeezes. We glance at our hands clasped together, then quickly let go. We both blush and look away. I concentrate on smiling at the old lad
y. Her dog barks as we overtake them.
‘Boris!’ she calls. ‘They’re just schoolchildren.’
Not according to Boris. He knows what we’re planning.
‘Kate,’ I say, ‘if I help you with the whales, will you …’
Kate looks at me, questioningly.
I swallow hard. ‘Will you help me with a …’ How can I explain about Kelifa and my parents’ financial troubles?
Kate says, ‘Don’t worry about Hunter, Jesse. Everyone is scared of him. Remember our non-violent protest.’ She giggles then stands still, her eyes glazing over as if ignoring Hunter’s latest insult.
‘It’s not Hunter. It’s a friend,’ I say.
‘Which friend?’ She blushes again. ‘A girl?’
‘No, no, no,’ I say, a little too loudly. ‘A boy I know on the internet.’
Kate shakes her head. ‘My dad told me not to chat to strangers on the web.’
‘He’s not a stranger, he’s a boy. And I don’t chat to him. He can’t afford a computer. I … My parents sent him a donation. For charity.’
‘I could give you five dollars and ask Mum and Dad for a donation. Maybe we could take up a collection from our neighbours?’
‘That’s it!’ I say. ‘We can start a fund to help Kelifa!’
Everyone can join in. I’m so excited I give Kate a big hug.
‘I knew you’d have an answer,’ I say.
She giggles. Our faces are so close, I can feel her breath on my cheek. It smells of spearmint chewing gum. We look at each other, then jump away as if electrocuted. Except Kate’s hair isn’t standing on end, it’s soft and curly and looks bouncy, like in those television commercials for shampoo. I’m not sure who is the most surprised. Me, Kate or the old lady who’s caught up to us on the footpath.
‘It’s not a dance hall, you know,’ she says as she leads Boris past us. Boris is wagging his tail at a man walking his German shepherd on the other side of the street. It must be puppy love, I think.
Kate grins, her braces glinting in the late afternoon sun. She notices me looking and closes her mouth.
‘I love … like your braces, Kate,’ I say, wondering how long a person can blush before all that blood makes their head explode.
‘You’re just saying that because I caught you staring,’ Kate replies, softly.
‘No I’m not. They make …’ I don’t know how to explain what I mean.
‘Railway tracks, just like Hunter says!’ Kate answers.
I feel the blood pumping faster to my face: explosion time five seconds and counting.
‘They make you, you!’ I say. ‘Like my dad has his curly hair. Without it he just wouldn’t look right. And Mum has her bracelets and beads and long dresses. And Larry has his t-shirts. We all have something that gives us—’
‘And what do you have, Jesse?’ Kate smiles.
I shrug, unable to think of a single thing.
Kate reaches for my hand. ‘Warm hands. That’s what you’ve got.’
And a face redder than a beetroot.
21
HUNTER
Hunter sits beside the fountain at Elkhorn Park after school. The woman and her personal trainer do circuits of the park, stopping every lap to shadow-box for a few minutes. The trainer calls out, ‘Left, right, left,’ encouraging the woman. The woman responds with tired punches and exaggerated breathing.
Hunter wonders where the old man is today. He picks up his backpack and walks across the park, following the path beside the creek. His phone beeps with a text message. Mum wants to meet him at Berliner Cafe for a milkshake. Hunter smiles. Anything is better than doing his personal assessment task.
He scrambles down the embankment and hops from rock to rock across the creek before hauling himself up the other side. He wonders if his mum has already ordered a vanilla thickshake with a double scoop of chocolate ice-cream on top. She knows what he likes.
There’s a line of bicycles parked outside the cafe. At a table on the verandah, four men sit drinking coffee. They’re all dressed in lycra and cycling jerseys. One of them wears a yellow bandana around his head. He looks like an overweight bandit. Hunter tries not to laugh when the waitress brings the man a lemon meringue pie the same colour as his bandana.
Hunter enters through the back door and sees his mum. He decides to surprise her. She stirs her coffee which sits next to a tall thickshake. Hunter smiles. Before he can walk to the table, a middle-aged man wearing a tweed jacket and carrying a single rose approaches his mum.
‘Hello, sorry I’m late,’ says the man. Hunter hides behind the magazine stand. The man has a jovial round face with pale cheeks and a slightly red nose. His hair is unruly but has been hastily flattened down with water. He smiles easily. ‘I missed the bus,’ he says.
Hunter’s mum looks behind her, as if she thinks the man is talking to someone else.
The man sits down at the table in Hunter’s seat and gestures to the waiter for a coffee. The waiter nods and looks at Mrs Riley, questioningly. She shakes her head.
‘I’m always missing buses,’ the man says. ‘A bad habit I’ve had since I was a child. Of course, being late for school had its advantages.’ He laughs. ‘It’s nice of you to meet me.’ He looks around again, toward the waiter. ‘I’m not familiar with this part of town. Do you work near here? Is this your local?’ He drums his fingers on the table. ‘I … I’ve never done this sort of thing before,’ he says. ‘I guess that’s obvious.’
Hunter feels blood rush to his face when the man offers his mum the rose. At first, Mrs Riley shakes her head as if to say no, but the man insists and she accepts. His mum lifts her hand to her cheek as if to cover her embarrassment. The man says, ‘My name’s Donald. But, you already know that.’
The waiter brings the coffee and slides it across the table. Donald offers him a five dollar note and says, ‘Keep the change’. The waiter smiles and walks away.
Donald notices Hunter’s thickshake beside his coffee. He slides the full glass toward Mrs Riley. ‘Do you always drink coffee and a thickshake?’ he asks.
‘It’s for my son,’ Mrs Riley says, looking out the window.
‘Your son?’ Donald looks confused. He follows Mrs Riley’s gaze. ‘Your profile didn’t say you had children,’ he says.
‘My what?’
‘Your profile. On Dating Hearts.’
Mrs Riley shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what—’
‘You’re Diane? Aren’t you?’ Donald blushes.
‘My name is Helen.’
He sighs. ‘I knew I should have asked for a photo. She said she’d be wearing a blue frock and …’ They both look at Mrs Riley’s dress: blue.
‘Oh dear,’ he says.
Mrs Riley holds the rose in her hand. She lifts it up to her nose and closes her eyes, as if enjoying the delicate perfume. At the noise of a chair scraping back she opens her eyes. Donald is about to stand.
Hunter looks around the cafe for a woman wearing a blue dress. There is no-one but his mum.
The man smiles. ‘Please, keep the rose.’
Hunter watches his mum smile at the man. Her eyes twinkle.
‘What’s Dating Hearts?’ she asks.
‘A place for,’ the man smiles inwardly, ‘fools like me, I guess.’ He finishes the coffee. ‘My wife left me five years ago,’ he says. ‘It’s only now I’m getting up the courage to …’ He places the cup back on the saucer.
His mum holds up the rose again. ‘It’s a lovely thought,’ she says, simply.
‘I don’t know if I’ll have the courage to try again,’ he says. Donald looks up and sees Hunter staring at them.
Hunter blushes and steps from behind the stand. He walks to the table. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he says.
Donald stands and clears his throat. Mrs Riley blushes and puts the rose on the t
able.
‘I’ll be going,’ he says. ‘Thanks for,’ he looks at Mrs Riley, ‘understanding.’ He smiles at Hunter and strides out of the restaurant. Mrs Riley watches him walk past the cyclists.
‘I wonder if he’ll look back,’ she says, in a quiet voice.
Hunter watches his mum look after the man. She’s sitting up straight in the chair and biting her lip, as if everything depends upon what the man does next.
Donald turns around and offers a timid wave. Mrs Riley smiles.
Hunter sits down at the table.
‘Vanilla thickshake with chocolate ice-cream, dear, your favourite.’
‘Who was that, Mum?’ Hunter asks.
‘He mistook me for somebody else.’ Mrs Riley laughs, looking at her son. ‘Do I look like a Diane to you, Hunter?’ she asks.
Hunter takes a noisy slurp of his thickshake and says, ‘You look like my mum, Mum.’
22
jesse
In class the next day, Kate raises her hand as soon as Sarah walks into the room. Sarah pretends not to notice and shuffles some papers on her desk.
‘Good morning,’ she says.
‘Good morning, Sarah,’ we answer. Kate waves her hand to get attention.
‘I don’t suppose you want to go to Walter, Kate?’ Sarah asks.
‘No, Sarah,’ Kate says. ‘Jesse and I have an idea for an excursion.’
Sarah glances at me and I try to look hopeful, without giving too much away.
‘Yes?’ she asks.
‘The Japanese Embassy, Sarah,’ announces Kate. I look at Kate’s hands. She’s crossed her fingers, for luck. I do the same.
‘Not this again!’ says Skye. ‘Can’t we go to the beach instead?’
Sarah places the papers in a neat pile on her desk. ‘And what would we do at the embassy, Kate?’ she asks.
‘We’d hold up banners made in art class and ask the Japanese not to kill any more whales,’ says Kate, looking around the class for support. Lance stifles a yawn while Anastasia stares out the window.
Hunter raises his hand.