After (4 page)

By Friday, I’d decided living in the country was like being stuck in a film that Christos and I had watched, about a guy who relived the same day over and over again. The days here weren’t identical, but they were close to it.

At home, my grandparents walked around each other like a force-field stopped them from coming too close. Grandpa didn’t say much. Nan said less.

At school, every day was the same as the one before.

At recess and lunch, the boys sprinted for the oval where they played footy—well, kick-to-kick, because tackling was banned. It was as if the oval and grassed area had been divided into territories and the boundaries were never crossed. The little kids—preps to about Year Two—played near the portables, the other primary guys at the goals near the toilets and the older ones had most of the oval and the goals near the paddock.

The only boy who didn’t play footy, apart from me, was Luke. He hovered on the edge. Sometimes he wandered off to the pines. From my seat I could see him staring up at the tree-tops, prising open pine cones or gathering feathers. Sometimes he sat under the pines with a notebook and drew. Most of the time, though, he hovered like he was waiting for someone, even a little kid, to ask him to play.

The girls did the same thing in the same place every day. The older girls played netball, the little kids mucked around with stuffed toys on the play equipment, and the middle lot filled the paved area with pop music, stupid dance moves, and bossy squealing that erupted into cat fights. They were nearly annoying enough to make me move from my seat. Nearly.

The best thing about the Winter Creek kids doing the same thing every day was that they left me alone.

One guy, Tim, hung around my bench one recess. He asked a heap of questions—not personal stuff or anything, but questions like did I play footy, did I like the NBL and had I seen some new action film. He seemed okay, kind of funny. But my grunted answers did the trick and he didn’t hang around my seat again, though he did say hi to me. So did a round kid called Vinnie.

Everyone else stepped around me, the same way Grandpa and Nan stepped around each other. And that suited me fine. It was strange how I liked being avoided here, but how it had killed me at St Pat’s.

I hated it when my best friends Michael and Lochie walked past me without looking at me. Assemblies were horrible. The whole school stared like I had five heads, and no one ever spoke to me. The teachers were weird too. Last term, five of them were talking in the office when I walked in for my weekly ‘meeting’ with Franger. As soon as the teachers saw me they stopped talking and stared at the ground.

Sometimes I missed my old life so much I wanted to punch something.

My old life—skateboarding with Michael, Lochie and Nic, hanging it on Spew, yelling jokes across the science room until Ms Callaghan’s cried, playing footy for the school’s senior team and soccer with Nic.

But if I couldn’t have that, I’d settle for being invisible. Except my invisibility bubble burst Friday afternoon.

‘Listen up, thank you,’ said Mr Agar, striding into class after lunch.

Klay slunk back to his seat. Shelley slipped her magazine into her desk drawer.

‘Have we got PE, Mr Agar?’ asked Frewen, his chair balanced on its back legs.

‘Sit forward before you fall and splatter your brains all over the room, Jack.’

‘Gross, Mr Agar,’ squealed Em.

‘Then we’d have two spazs in the—’

‘Klay!’ snapped Mr Agar. ‘We don’t have PE. You have art with Ms Nugent.’

‘You’re kidding,’ groaned Frewen. ‘We’re supposed to have PE.’

‘That sucks.’ Miffo thumped his desk. ‘No offence, Matt,’ he added, elbowing Matt Nugent, who I figured was Ms Nugent’s son.

‘If it’s such a problem, I’ll withdraw our school from the interschool sports day that I’m organising.’

Klay sat straighter in his seat and Frewen leant forward, his eyes bright. ‘When is it?’

‘October. For a full day, with students from Millington College, Our Lady’s—’

‘Awesome,’ said Miffo.

Everyone started high-fiving each other. Everyone except me, the round kid, Vinnie and Luke.

‘So I take it it’s all right if I go to the meeting this afternoon and you have art?’

‘Yeah,’ said Jack.

‘Good, and if you behave yourselves, I’ll fit in an extra PE next week,’ added Mr Agar, picking up his briefcase. ‘Now that’s sorted, art room, thanks.’

Chairs scraped, desks banged and people chatted.

Jack, Klay, Miffo and Matt tried to squeeze through the doorway all at once. The other boys, except me and Luke, raced after them.

Shelley and the short girl, Jazmin, discussed a movie they’d watched. A girlie film judging by the ‘oh nos’ and ‘that’s so gorrrrgeous’.

I followed, hands in my jeans pocket.

A cackle from the ramp opposite made me look up. Klay was pointing and laughing. I turned to see what the big deal was. Luke was walking behind me, hands in his pockets, head low. I took my hands from my pockets and clasped them in front of me and Luke did the same.

Great. So now the special kid was hanging it on me. I gritted my teeth.

Mr Agar, oblivious to what was happening, stepped inside the art room. He and a teacher I figured was Ms Nugent chatted in front of the window. She watched me with pale eyes and a sharp face. She reminded me of a crow. It wasn’t hard to read her lips. ‘I’ll watch him.’

Mr Agar strutted out the door. Frewen and his mates were still laughing.

‘Okay, everyone, inside and sit at the tables. Frewen, Miffo and Klay, don’t sit together. Matt, I’m sure you’ll behave for your mother. See you next week, or at tomorrow’s match against Millo.’ He did this bizarre salute thing, as though he was flicking something off the rim of an imaginary hat, and strolled down the ramp. He paused beside me. ‘You’ll enjoy art. Matt’s mum knows her stuff. Coming to the footy tomorrow?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said, longing to be invisible again.

Mr Agar shrugged.

‘Figured the club president’s grandson would be there.’

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop the groan that was building in my throat. Training. Macka’s corkie. It all made sense. As if living in a town lost in time wasn’t bad enough, Grandpa was the president of the local footy club.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Callum, if you change your mind.’ Mr Agar swaggered to the office.

‘Callum?’ called out Ms Nugent from the doorway.

The only seat left in the art room was beside Luke.

Even though I pulled my stool away from him, Luke’s presence was so strong he may as well have been touching me. I tried to concentrate on what Ms Nugent was saying, but the combination of Luke shadowing my every move and the new information about Grandpa was making it tough. Only the occasional word registered in my brain—negative space, pattern light and shade.

I sensed movement beside me and glanced at Luke. He was sketching in his notebook. He’d drawn a bird, a mudlark, standing on grass. Its feathers were fluffed up and its head tucked close to its body.

‘That’s good,’ I whispered. ‘Seriously good.’

‘The bird’s cold,’ said Luke.

‘I know.’

‘Callum?’ said Ms Nugent.

‘Yeah?’

She frowned. ‘That’s the second time I’ve asked if you’ve worked with charcoal before.’ There was an edge to her voice and a glint in her eye.

‘Charcoal?’

Her nostrils flared as she breathed in. ‘Have you not been listening?’

‘Yes, Miss. I mean, no. I’ve been listening.’

Sniggers broke the silence.

She folded her arms. ‘I asked if you’d worked with charcoal before.’ Each word was a sentence on its own.

Had I worked with charcoal? Mum studied art when I was a kid. Every time she tried something new, I got to muck around with it too. I was in about Year One, maybe Year Two, when she was doing charcoal. She’d give me a broken piece and I’d copy her, sketching, frowning rubbing, smoothing. And swearing when I smudged everything with my hand. The whole time Mum was into charcoal our towels, cups, glasses, even toilet paper were stamped with black fingerprints.

‘I’ve done a bit.’

‘It’s a wonderful medium, though it does tend to smudge.’ The way she lifted her chin as she spoke made me edgy.

I rolled my eyes. Luke rolled his eyes too.

Ms Nugent handed out sheets of white paper and sticks of charcoal. ‘Remember, focus on light and shade. Callum, are you familiar with those terms?’

Was this woman for real? Did she think I was like Luke? I gripped the edge of the table. Luke did the same.

Ms Nugent slipped a sheet of paper in front of me and handed me a stick of charcoal. ‘Be careful. It snaps easily.’

No shit, Sherlock, I thought.

Ms Nugent reeled back as though I’d slapped her. ‘I. Beg. Your. Pardon?’ she screeched.

What was her problem?

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ bellowed Luke.

I felt sick. I had said it aloud.

Matt Nugent looked ready to rip my head off. Frewen scowled across the room. Shelley’s open mouth made a glossy O. The only sound in the class was Luke. He rocked back and forth, holding his sides, eyes squeezed shut and face red. Between the waves of his laughter, he repeated. ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

‘Luke.’ Ms Nugent’s voice was like a whip crack. ‘Pull yourself together.’

‘It was a joke, Miss.’ I knew it was lame.

‘Am I laughing?’ asked Ms Nugent, her voice like a dentist’s drill. She pointed to Matt. ‘Ask my son, I have a wonderful sense of humour. Don’t I, Matt?’

Matt nodded.

She slapped the paper in front of me. ‘Your big-city-tough-talk does not intimidate me, understand?’

Big-city-tough talk? What was that supposed to mean?

‘If you can’t behave in a civilised manner like the rest of the class, I refuse to teach you.’ She was just about out of breath. ‘Take a text book from the shelf by the window, and start writing.’

‘Writing what?’

‘The text! Copy it out.’

I snatched a book from the shelf and slammed it on the table. The bang echoed around the room. I opened
Impressionism
at the preface and started writing, in 2B pencil, on her perfect white paper.

‘Luke, you love drawing. There’s no need for you to do that,’ said Ms Nugent, her voice softer.

I looked up. Beside me, Luke had
A Child’s Book of Monet
open on his desk. He shook his head. ‘I said it too, Miss.’ He picked up a pencil and started writing, his face twisted with the effort.

Mouth tight, Ms Nugent turned her back on us.

Luke winked. ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ he whispered.

How was school, Callum?’ asked Nan, driving out of the school car park.

‘Okay.’

She grimaced. ‘A trip to Millington to buy a school uniform will cheer you up.’

And afterwards, I could stick a pencil in my eye to top off a sensational day.

‘I don’t need a school uniform.’

‘Your grandfather insists you do.’

Nan drove through Winter Creek, which took a nanosecond, and along the highway. ‘See those pine trees,’ said Nan, pointing to a stand of trees on a hill. ‘Pony club’s held there every week.’

Pony club? There was no way, absolutely no way, I was going to pony club.

‘Every Saturday, Maeve and I would hook up the horse float, load Floss and all the gear and trek across to The Pines.’ For the first time, Nan sounded almost human.

I turned to look at her. ‘Mum did pony club?’

‘She’s never mentioned it?’

‘Nuh.’

‘Does she say anything about her childhood?’

Mum never spoke about life before me. And I’d never thought about her having a life before me, until now. ‘Not really.’

That killed any trace of Nan the human. She squeezed the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. After a few minutes, she turned the radio on to a talk station. I slid down in my seat, wishing I’d remembered my iPod. An old guy, his voice as crackly as old leaves, raved on about melaleucas, whatever they were. The lines around my grandmother’s eyes and lips softened. At least cellophane-man and the mela-whatever-they-were had distracted her from talking about Mum.

I didn’t want to talk or even think about Mum—not Mum as a kid and definitely not Mum as an adult. Thinking about Mum made the hollow ache I’d had in my chest for the past eight months even worse. That ache, a feeling that a clawed beast had wrenched my heart out, wasn’t healing at Marrook. It was just getting worse.

I leant back against the head rest and closed my eyes.

On the way back to Marrook, my silence had nothing to do with the ache in my chest but everything to do with Millington.

Mum had warned me that life in the country was different. Different? Well, try just plain weird.

When Nan, Mrs Gray, Grandpa, even Mr Agar spoke about Millington, the word sounded weighty, impressive, as though Millington was an important place. But Millington was ... small. Unspectacular. Just the same as the small towns Chris, Mum and I drove through on the way to Yarrawonga or Lakes Entrance for holidays.

There were no traffic lights or pedestrian crossings, just roundabouts at every intersection. Not that anyone knew how to use them. Everyone drove like Nan—slow and near the centre of the road.

New car dealers didn’t sell one brand, like Holden or Ford or Mitsubishi. They sold two and three different kinds. There was no cinema, no Flash! game arcade, no undercover car park and no outdoor seating outside the café. The shops were on the street, not in a plaza or a shopping centre, and most of them, except for a burger place and the smallest Just Jeans in the world, had names I’d never heard of.

Bourkey’s Butcher.

Crowley’s Shoes.

Quinn & Sons’ Hardware.

Millington Bakery was my favourite. It had a life-size baker out the front with a basket of fake bread over his fake arm. Among the white loaves were cigarette butts, a pizza crust and something brown I didn’t want to think about.

Possibly the weirdest thing of all was that people stood right in the middle of the footpath talking. At home, people hated it if the footpath was blocked by chatters. Not in Millington. They just smiled and said hello to each other as they passed. When I asked Nan if they all knew each other, she glared and led me into Dobson and Sons.

Dobson and Sons was kind of like Myer or David Jones, only not. It smelt of old paper and floor polish. Wooden signs hung on silver chains from the ceiling showing each section. There was a women’s section, home furnishings, haberdashery and a men’s department.

My grandmother zeroed in on the men’s department. The jumpers, jeans, shirts, undies, scarves, and old man hats were displayed in pigeon holes along the walls. The counter was a glass cupboard filled with handkerchiefs, wallets and belts.

Two men of about Grandpa’s age stood behind the counter, talking.

‘Hello, Pat,’ said the tallest man. He reminded me of an autumn tree—all long limbs and kind of dried-up looking.

‘Hello, Gerard,’ said Nan. ‘I need a Winter Creek uniform.’

‘For this young man?’ asked the short, round guy with a tape measure draped over his shoulders

‘Yes, for Callum,’ said Nan. ‘Callum, this is Gerard and Duncan Dobson.’

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘The full winter uniform, Pat?’ asked the tall one, Gerard.

‘That’s right,’ said Nan, before I could comment.

The guy with the tape measure, Duncan, looked me up and down and muttered a number. Both men went to the shelves.

As Nan ushered me to the change room, I swore that I heard one of them hiss, ‘He must be Maeve’s son.’

Trying on clothes in Millington was an experience I don’t want to repeat, ever.

Duncan kept opening the dressing room doors, without warning, to check on how things fitted. At one point, he and his brother both crammed into the change room with me to check the school pants. Hadn’t they heard of privacy? For some reason, Nan had taken my jeans when I started trying stuff on, which was the only thing that stopped me from bolting.

After twenty minutes—which felt like forever—Gerard sailed to the counter, arms loaded with school pants, polo shirts, grey socks, white singlets, jocks, a tracksuit, woollen school jumper and a Winter Creek backpack. He folded everything into brown plastic bags printed with the Dobson and Sons logo. Duncan placed an invoice book on the glass counter. ‘Account, Pat?’

‘Yes thank you, Duncan,’ said Nan.

He listed my uniform in the book. No money, not even plastic, changed hands.

Grandpa unwrapped the fish and chips Nan had bought in Winter Creek after our uniform shopping trip. Steam curled into the air. The smell of fried batter made my mouth water.

Nan placed knives and forks on the table.

‘How was school, Callum?’ he asked.

I shrugged. ‘Okay, I guess.’

‘That’s an improvement, then.’ Grandpa reached under his chair and lifted up a bottle of Nan’s home-made sauce.

‘Jim! Must you?’ growled Nan.

He poured the sauce over the chips he’d plonked on his plate. ‘Yes, Patricia, I must.’

‘A fine example to set for Callum. Sauce on chips is ... revolting.’

‘It’s all a matter of taste.’ Grandpa dipped a chip as thick as his thumb into the sauce. He pushed the bottle towards me. ‘Like some?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

‘And Callum, use your fingers for fish and chips.’

Nan thumped her glass onto the table.

‘Thanks.’ I dunked a chip into the puddle of sauce.

‘How are you getting along with Jack Frewen?’ asked Grandpa.

I spluttered and hacked. ‘Sorry. Hot chip.’ I gulped from my glass of water. ‘I’m still working out who everyone is. I sit next to some kid called Klay.’

‘Klay Turner. His father’s the new stock agent, Pat,’ said Grandpa.

Nan frowned. ‘Hope he’s not as arrogant as his father.’

‘And there’s a kid called Luke,’ I said.

‘You’re in Luke Bennett’s class?’ said Nan.

‘Yeah.’

Grandpa glanced at Nan. ‘I thought he went to that school in Millington? The special—’

‘Jane felt he was going backwards.’ Nan reached for a piece of fish. ‘That reminds me, Jim. Duncan put Callum’s uniform on the account.’

‘Long time since we’ve had uniforms on the account,’ said Grandpa, looking at his plate.

For the next fives minutes, the only sounds were the rustle of paper and the ticking of the clock.

‘How about coming to the footy with me tomorrow, Callum,’ said Grandpa.

‘No. Thanks.’

‘Actually, you will go, Callum.’ My grandmother’s voice was as cold as the glare she gave me. ‘Tomorrow’s my quilting day and I’m not missing it.’

‘You don’t have to. I’ll be all right on my own.’

‘You will not stay here alone,’ said Nan, her lips white.

I banged my glass on the table. ‘Worried I’ll steal something?’

‘That’s enough, Callum,’ said Grandpa. ‘You’ll come with me tomorrow. No arguments. We leave at 7.30.’

‘I’m full.’ I walked out of the kitchen.

Their voices drifted down the hall behind me. I stopped to listen.

‘You’re tough on the kid, Pat,’ said Grandpa.

‘Because he’s as rude and stubborn as his mother.’

‘Wonder where they get that from?’

I heard a chair scrape on the tiles and dishes clatter. ‘He is your problem, Jim. I made it very clear I did not want him here. This is your idea. Your problem, not mine.’

Stuff her. I stomped to my room.

I dreamed about Mum riding horses, her long hair in pigtails flying behind her. She cantered towards jumps made out of paintbrushes and charcoal. My grandparents watched from behind a cyclone wire fence.

Then it was me and Nic riding horses. I was on Mum’s horse. Nic was astride a black stallion. Its eyes were wild and its nostrils flared. Nic laughed and kicked the horse’s flanks. It whinnied and galloped towards a brick wall, launching into the air. I screamed at Nic to jump off. He just hooted and punched the air. Nic and the stallion passed through the wall as if it were made of smoke, not brick.

I woke in a panic making it impossible to go back to sleep.