Dan had to tell himself, Not now, had to quiet the scream in his head. He couldn�t do it now, out in the open. But it was a screaming in his head: I am going to kill you, cunt, I am going to tear you apart.
All he said was the name of the park and the time to meet there after school. The other boy was nervous now, both the other boys were, but Dan knew that neither of them could back down. Another tram pulled up and Dan went to catch it. �Five o�clock,� he yelled again. �I�ll be there.� And he added, ecstatic, the word a thrill on his lips, �Cunt.�
A woman threw him a look of hatred and contempt. He didn�t care. He wasn�t in uniform.
Except that, sitting in the tram, catching his breath, the word repeated endlessly in his head: cry-baby. That was what he was, and the punch of his failure floored him so violently that he could barely breathe. His skin was flame and his hands trembled and the blood throbbed so hard in his head that he couldn�t see and the wretched memories came back, they would never leave him alone. He sat, burning, the shame so intense he thought he could burst into flames.
He thought he had got away with it but as he was about to sneak back into the school he heard his name barked out. He instantly recognised the hard consonants and chopped vowels.
He forced his face to go blank. He didn�t want the man to know how much he hated him.
�Where have you been?� Coach was running across the road towards him. Dan couldn�t help marvelling at how his enormous belly was so tight that it didn�t shake. Was it possible for it all to be muscle?
The man was in his face, repeating the question. �Where have you been?�
Nothing came to Dan. �I was wagging.�
The man�s shoulders slumped. �Boy, this is your final year, your grades are not good. What are you doing?�
Dan�s first thought was, What business is it of yours? Then, immediately following it: How do you know and why would you care?
�Danny, I want to talk to you.�
�Am I in trouble?�
�I said I want to talk to you.�
�Am I in trouble?� You failed me. I didn�t fail, you failed me.
�You stupid boy, don�t you know they are looking for any excuse to let you go?�
That�s because I�m a failure, that�s because I�m no good.
�Am I in trouble?� He was enjoying repeating the question, enjoying seeing how much it was annoying Coach. The man�s face was purple now, he was showing teeth. That�s what we are, thought Dan, two dogs who want to tear each other to pieces.
Then the man�s face slackened, suddenly devoid of expression. �Go. Go back.�
Does he want me to thank him for not reporting me? Dan wondered. I�m not going to fucking thank him. Dan put his hands in his pockets, felt the smooth cold surface of the saucer. �OK, I�m going.�
�Danny.� The man stopped him. His words were all effort, as if he was ashamed of them. �My offer stands. If you want me to train you again, I will. If you want to come around and talk to me, about anything, I am happy to help. You are always welcome in my home.�
The man was waiting. Eagerly. Like a dog hanging out for a bone.
Dan said quietly, purposefully, �Mr Torma, you know those pizzas you always ordered for us? The ones you reckoned were so fantastic, the best in the world? They�re no good, sir, they stink, sir, all us boys thought so. We lied to you. We really hated those pizzas.�
It had just come out of nowhere, from deep inside him, and it was exactly the right thing. How had he not thought of it before? The fat fool was gutted, as though Dan had kinghit him, he was blinking, speechless. Dan had wanted to yell at him, but this was better. Smarter. No swearing, no losing his temper. Just putting the fat fool in his place. The shame he�d felt on the tram, the disgrace of who he was, all of it disappeared; he wanted to roar with laughter as he ran along the side of the school grounds, scaled the fence into the ovals, ran down to the river and changed his clothes. He just made the bell for the start of English. Martin winked at him as he took his seat. Luke�s face was pure relief.
It was a double period, two hours of English, and Dan was concentrating. Mr Gilbert was his teacher, and he had always liked the man; he sometimes thought Mr Gilbert was the only teacher who liked him in turn, who forgave Dan for constantly fucking up. They were studying Life of Galileo and though Dan didn�t raise his hand or ask any questions, he enjoyed following the reading of the play. He found that the words calmed him. He knew that it was strange to get such stillness from the words�he should have been feeling outrage for what they did to a man who was the best and the smartest man of his time. What they did was unconscionable. It was the word that Mr Gilbert had used and it was exactly the right word. He thought that it was all fantasy, he knew that was not how words worked in the real world. He felt pity for poor Galileo, speaking the truth and then being forced to speak lies. Accepting ignominy�another one of Mr Gilbert�s words. That was what happened to the best and the wisest. The world hated them and forced them into cowardice, forced them to lie.
He disappeared into the words until the final bell rang and the chairs scraped back on the wooden floor and Dan remembered he had to fight. He had to fight and he had to win.
He told Martin but didn�t dare tell Luke.
Martin said, �OK, got ya,� and whispered to some other boys.
At the lockers Dan carefully took out the blue finch plate and showed it to Martin. �This is for Emma, for her birthday.�
Martin was surprised. �You remembered her birthday?�
�Yeah, of course.�
Martin looked at the plate, then raised an eyebrow. �Where did you get it from?�
Dan had to stop himself from blurting out that he�d taken it. It would have impressed Taylor, but Emma couldn�t know; he�d be ashamed if she were to find out.
Martin put out his hand. �I�ll give it to her.�
Dan held the plate tight against his chest. �Nah, I�ll give it to her myself. I thought I might come home with you tonight, after the fight.�
Martin stiffened. �She won�t be there.� His tone was surly, annoyed. �She doesn�t even live with us anymore, she�s got her own place.� He reached out again for the plate. �I�ll give it to her when she comes for lunch on Sunday. OK?�
Dan didn�t want to let go of it. It was his gift to her, he wanted to hand it to her and see her face when she opened the wrapping; he�d get some at the newsagent tomorrow, some gold paper�that was what the present deserved.
�I�ll come by on Sunday then. What time?�
�Jesus!�
Dan didn�t understand why Martin was so exasperated, why he slammed his locker shut.
�Don�t you get it?� Martin said, almost mumbling, not looking at Dan. �Don�t you get it, even after all these years, that you can�t just come around? That�s not how it�s done.� Taylor made a joke of the last five words, squeezed them out so they sounded like a joke. �You haven�t been invited.�
Dan thought, So invite me. Then he remembered Mrs Taylor dropping him off after their weekend at the beach. �Your mum said that I was always welcome at your house.� He could remember her very words: Danny, you are always welcome at our house.
Now Martin wasn�t annoyed, he just rolled his eyes. �She was just being polite, you dickhead. Don�t you get it?� And this time he snatched the plate away. �I�ll give it to Emma on Sunday. I�ll even wrap it for you, how�s that?�
Dan wanted to grab the plate, to raise it high and drop it so that it smashed into a million pieces.
The boy he was to fight had his gym gear on. Dan was going to fight barechested; he couldn�t afford to tear his shirt. He turned away from the two groups of waiting boys, boys from both schools, and stripped off his uniform, embarrassed about all the filthy hair.
The boys started clapping and the other side started one of their sports chants, and Tsitsas and Martin answered with one of their own. They ke
pt it down, in case someone heard.
I�m the toughest, Dan told himself, I�m the strongest. He had to win. He reminded himself: no biting, no kicking, nothing shameful. He couldn�t win by being dishonourable. He planted his feet, raised his fists.
The other boy punched him, fast. It took him by surprise; he didn�t feel the pain of it but it made him stumble and fall. The chanting had stopped. He scrambled to his feet, grateful that the other boy hadn�t come flying, that he�d given him the chance to get up. So Dan ran towards the boy, slammed into him and put him on the ground, but Dan didn�t wait, Dan just crashed onto him so his weight was fully on the boy�s chest. The boy was calling out, �Off me! Off me!� but all Dan did was push his knee harder into the boy�s chest. He raised his fist and then jabbed, quickly, three times. He wanted to punch hard, oh how he would have liked to break the boy�s jaw and nose and teeth, and he knew he could have�one for Torma and one for Wilco and one for Mrs Taylor�but he held himself back. He stayed on top of the boy, but told himself to stay cool, it was all over.
And it was. The boy was saying, �Just get off me, OK? You win, just get off me.�
Martin came up and helped Dan to his feet, lifting one of his hands high in the air. And then his friends were singing the other school�s song while the defeated boys slunk off; they sang at the top of their lungs, not caring who heard them now, but instead of the verses being about pride and honour and history they were singing of pervert homo priests and nympho nuns. Martin was still holding Dan�s hand high and he started to chant, �Barracuda, Barracuda,� but Dan tore away from his grip and faced his friend.
�Don�t. Fucking don�t.�
�Sure,� smiled Martin, watching Dan get dressed. �Whatever you want, you fucking psycho.�
As they walked out of the park, Martin had his arm around Dan�s shoulder. It felt both heavy and light. He didn�t understand how he could want Martin�s arm to stay there and how he would also just love to punch it off. Dan was smiling as the boys praised him, but he wasn�t satisfied. He�d won but it didn�t feel like anything. He�d won but it wasn�t worth anything.
Next morning, at the newsagent, getting ticked off by the owner for being five minutes late, Dan couldn�t stop asking himself why Coach would have made the offer he did, why he would even bother with him. And then it came to him. Coach no longer believed in him, Coach knew that the other Danny was gone. What Coach was feeling was pity, that�s what it was.
That was all Dan was worth. Pity.
Dan hated the man for his pity, and wished him dead; and just for the tiniest of seconds, that childish and malevolent thought warmed him. Then the shame returned in an icy rush.
At the end of his shift he balanced the till and locked up. He thought back to saying to Martin, I�ll come around, and Martin answering, You don�t get it, that�s not how it�s done. He meant that he and Dan came from different worlds, he meant that Dan was ignorant and impolite. He meant, thought Dan, that I am slovenly.
The word was ugly. But that was what he was. Shame ran through him again, as sharp and searing as boiling water. Then the cold came back, and wrapped around and froze his heart. That cold too was searing.
‘YOU’RE GETTING TO BE A GOOD driver.’
It feels good to hear Dad say that, as he punches on the car stereo buttons, trying to find a song he likes. The AM/FM radio on Mum’s Datsun works but the CD player is stuffed, it hasn’t worked for a year. Whenever we get into the car, Mum says, ‘I don’t know what happened to it. One day it was fine and the next it just stopped working. Stupid shitbox.’
If Regan and I are in the car with her when she says that we don’t dare look at one another in case we lose it and crack up. What Mum doesn’t know is that last summer Regan and two of her mates were in the car, not even driving, too young for their Ls. They were bored, just hanging out in the car, playing music, and Regan stuck a two-dollar coin in the CD slot, just for a laugh, for something to do. It got stuck and the CD player has never worked again.
Dad finally settles on a song on one of the golden oldies stations. I recognise it, one of those songs that comes up at the barbers or in the supermarket. Something about a man in a rocket.
Dad rests back in his seat. His window is down, and he’s humming along to the song. ‘He used to be good once, Elton John.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I kind of know Elton John. Bald, crazy glasses, a big poof.
‘Madman Across the Water. I had that album when I was a teenager, played it to death. That one was alright and Tumbleweed Connection was good too. Then they all turned to shit in the eighties.’ My dad is sneering as he says this. That’s what he always says: everything turned to shit in the eighties.
I can’t relax with Dad in the car. I know he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye, even now, pretending he’s just listening to the music, looking out of the window. My father has been driving since he was twelve, he knows how to drive any car, any truck, how to pull them apart and put them back together, how to drive in the fog and in the wet, in a tropical storm, how to navigate the sea of the Hume Highway and the ocean of the Nullarbor Plain. Mum says Dad doesn’t drive, he flies.
So his compliment glows for me, a spark from the centre of my stomach, but it doesn’t make me less anxious. It makes me more conscious of every gear shift, every use of the brake and clutch and accelerator. I wish we were out of the city on the open road, where I could really show him how I am learning to control this machine. Except I’d want to be on the open road on my own.
It is a week before Christmas and I can’t speed or fly in the bumper-to-bumper traffic cluttering up Glenferrie Road. It takes an age to get from one traffic light to the next.
‘Steady, mate,’ says Dad. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. We’re not going to be late.’
I realise he’s dreading this as much as I am.
When we finally cross Riversdale Road and are gliding down towards school he switches off the radio. I turn left into the small street that runs along the bottom of the college. Dad lets out a long whistle.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he splutters. ‘It’s fucking enormous.’
This is the first time Dad has even seen my school.
‘Wait till we get inside,’ I say, carefully inching into a parallel park between a new Mercedes and a black Pajero. I want to make it in one effortless glide, the perfect park. Dad can’t help it, his hand is pressed flat to the dashboard. I turn the wheel in one smooth motion and the Datsun finds its place. Trust me, I want to say to him. Can’t you just trust me?
He doesn’t speak as we walk up the long cobblestone drive and enter the quadrangle. The flowers have lost their spring bloom. Emptied of students, the grounds look even bigger, and the sense of space overwhelms me. My father remains silent as we pass the imposing bluestone walls of the chapel.
‘What’s this?’
On the far side of the quadrangle, the red-brick sports centre is lined by scaffolding along its length; there are ladders, ropes, and sheets of blue tarp. A group of workmen in fluoro orange vests are sitting on their haunches, having a break. They take no notice of us.
‘It’s the sports centre—they’re extending it,’ I explain, sensing my father’s disapproval. He opens his mouth to say something, then decides against it. But he does snort, a loud derisive sound from the back of his throat. Not for the first time this morning, I wish that it was Mum who was with me, that my old man hadn’t come anywhere near this place.
‘How can I help you?’ Mrs Marchant is behind the reception desk of the administration building. She is old, nervy, with a wrinkled neck, her thin-rimmed spectacles sitting precariously on the bridge of her nose. Her fingers keep flying over her keyboard as she awaits our answer.
‘We’re here to see Mr Canning.’ My father’s voice sounds loud, rough. Aussie.
The old lady keeps typing as she asks, ‘And do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes. I’m Neal Kelly.’
She stops ty
ping, takes off her glasses, squints at us, then smiles warmly. ‘Hello, Danny,’ she says. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Kelly.’
I am astonished that she knows my name. I’ve done my best to disappear over the last two years at this school. But then it dawns on me that she knows me from back when I was winning medals for the school, when I was someone. I don’t reply. I cross my arms and wait.
Principal Canning appears distracted as he ushers us into his office. His desk is massive, the size of a billiard table, carved from stained wood. One wall is full of bookcases, made of the same wood, right up to the ceiling. But I don’t take in the titles of the leather-bound volumes. I am too conscious of my father, who seems as nervous and ill at ease as I feel. We stand silently in front of the desk, both of us with our hands clasped behind our back, as if awaiting punishment. It is almost comical, my father’s diffident anxious stance: as if he’s expecting detention.
‘Please, sit.’
Dad sits heavily in the leather chair and it squeaks, just like a fart.
‘Mr Kelly, thank you for coming.’ Principal Canning turns to me. ‘And I’m glad you could make it too, Dan.’
I take a seat. But I don’t answer, I know this isn’t true.
It was my mother who took the call, that first week of the holidays. She had agreed, said of course she would come to the school, she was only too happy to discuss my future. But when she told Dad about the phone call, he said that he would be the one going, and that I’d be going with him.
Mum had replied, ‘No, they just want us—they want to talk to the parents. They haven’t asked Danny to come along.’
Dad had been firm. ‘It’s about his future, isn’t it? If it’s about his future he should be there. He’s coming.’
Mum told me all this yesterday, when I was whingeing about having to go back to school, whining that school was over, kaput for me, that I never ever had to set foot in that place again. In a tone that brooked no argument, a rare reproach in her voice, Mum said, ‘You are going along, Danny. Your father insists. It’s about your future—both of us think you should be there.’