After (3 page)

‘Alexander Beetle,’ continued the monotone voice.

I looked up.

‘Nanny let my beetle out,’ said a kid, who seemed too big for his desk, in the back corner.

Mr Agar slapped a table with his open hand. The red-haired girl at the table jumped.

‘That will do.’ Silence settled over the room. ‘Luke, that isn’t appropriate.’

‘But Mr Agar—’

The teacher raised his hand like a traffic cop and frowned at the big kid, Luke.

Luke slid down in his seat and pulled a face. ‘It’s a poem.’

Mr Agar sighed. ‘I know mate. A. A. Milne wrote it, and
Winnie the Pooh.
But, Luke, you know not to call out.’

‘Sorry, Mr Agar,’ said Luke, hanging his head.

I figured, by the way he spoke and acted, the Luke kid was disabled.

‘Good man. Now, as I was saying, Callum is staying with his grandparents for—how long, mate?’

I shrugged.

‘Don’t you know how long you’re here for?’ someone yelled out from the back of the room.

Mr Agar continued as though nothing had been said. ‘Let’s make Callum feel welcome.’

‘How come you’re staying with your grandparents? Where’s ya parents?’ asked the same voice, edged with something I couldn’t name.

‘That rude bloke is Jack Frewen,’ said Mr Agar, ‘Frewen, mind your manners. Callum, there’s a spare seat next to Klay.’

A kid with hair as black as my friend, my ex-friend, Michael, groaned.

‘Is there any chance you lot could stop acting like country hicks and make Callum welcome?’ Mr Agar shook his head. ‘Why are there still maths texts on tables? I asked you to put them away and take out your English books.’

Most of the class rummaged in drawers under their desks. I tried to work out where to put my bag, then noticed school bags shoved under the desks. At St Pat’s we sat at tables and had lockers for our stuff.

Klay slapped an A4 exercise book on his desk. I shoved my backpack under mine and sat.

‘Do you have books with you?’ asked Mr Agar, holding an exercise book like Klay’s.

‘No, Sir.’

‘Sir?’ Klay sniggered.

I gritted my teeth.

Mr Agar ignored Klay and handed me the book. ‘Yesterday we were looking at the character Stanley Yelnats...’

Arms folded, I let Mr Agar’s voice wash over me.

The chain threaded easily through the front wheel as CJ secured his bike to the bike rack, slung his back-pack over his shoulder and strolled towards homeroom.

‘Hey, wait,’ boomed a deep voice behind him.

CJ turned. Three Year Twelves sauntered towards him—Jonah Nash, captain of the school’s senior footy team, full-forward Connor Tatchell, and wing Trent Rosales. Trent waved, his face open like his brother Oscar’s. CJ and Oscar had been at school together since prep.

‘How’s it going?’ said CJ.

‘Pretty good,’ said Trent, smiling.

‘Hear you’re a top player,’ said Tatch, his forearms as large as CJ’s calves.

‘I’m okay at soccer, I guess.’

‘Soccer?’ Tatch screwed up his face. ‘Get real mate. We’re talking about footy. AFL.’

Footy was a sore point with CJ. He loved it. Maeve hated it. She’d banned him from playing on weekends, but had caved in when CJ cried and begged to be allowed to play in Year Six. In last year’s round robin competition between the Year Seven and Eights, CJ had starred.

‘Oscar reckons you read the play well,’ said Trent.

‘I do okay,’ said CJ, with a shrug.

‘Burbridge reckons you’re better than okay,’ said Tatch.

Burbridge was CJ’s PE teacher and also senior footy team coach.

‘Come to training tomorrow night. Show us what you can do,’ said Jonah.

‘What, to seniors’ training?’

‘What else?’ said Tatch.

‘Why? You making up numbers for a practise game or something?’

Tatch snorted. ‘There’s enough talent at this school to fill four senior sides. Probably five.’

‘So is it a development squad thing?’

‘You always such a pain?’ asked Tatch.

‘Nah, it’s just I don’t get why you want me there. Only Year Elevens and Twelves are allowed to play for the senior side.’

‘Just let us have a look at you,’ said Jonah, hands in his pockets. ‘You do okay, you’ll play. Burbridge will work out the rest.

A rush of excitement charged through CJ. He nodded, trying to look relaxed. ‘Okay. Tomorrow night it is.’

‘See you then.’ Jonah frowned.

CJ turned to see what Jonah was looking at. Nic trotted towards them, goofy smile on his face.

‘Listen, CJ,’ said Jonah, ‘Keep this between us.’

‘How come? Everyone will know I’ve been at training.’

‘Just don’t tell him,’ said Tatch, nodding at Nic.

‘Whatever.’ CJ shrugged. ‘See you tomorrow then, I guess.’

‘Hey,’ said Nic, running the last few metres to join them. ‘How you going guys? Started footy training yet? Reckon you’ll win the shield again? Should be a gun side this year, eh?’

‘Should be,’ said Jonah, nodding at Trent and Tatch. ‘See you, CJ.’

The three of them walked towards the Year Twelve building.

‘See ya, then,’ said Nic, waving at their backs. ‘What was that all about?’

‘Nothing.’ CJ punched Nic’s shoulder, and skipped around him like a boxer.

‘Yeah, right. Didn’t look like nothing.’

‘Serious, it was nothing. They just wanted to know about a soccer drill.’ CJ jabbed Nic’s shoulder and jogged towards the locker room, adrenalin rushing through his body.

The clanging bell for recess dragged me back to the classroom. Only it didn’t sound like any school bell I’d heard before.

‘No one leaves this room until I say so,’ yelled Mr Agar.

Groans drowned out the bell and the sound of chair legs scraping the floor.

Outside, Mrs Gray stood in the middle of the pavers ringing a massive bell. The bell part was brass and the handle wooden. It had to be 100 years old, at least. I snorted.

‘Haven’t ya seen a bell before?’ asked Jack Frewen.

‘Not this century.’

‘Callum’s probably used to an electronic bell.’ Mr Agar spoke as if he and I had heaps in common. ‘The school council’s applying for a grant to install an intercom system, including a bell, Callum.’

As if I care.

‘Tool,’ sneered Jack.

‘Frewen, lose the attitude during recess.’ Mr Agar shot him that teacher warning look.

‘Mr Agar, I’m busting.’ I recognised the big kid’s voice.

Laughter rippled across the class.

‘Right, you lot can leave,’ said Mr Agar.

The portable vibrated with noise—chair legs dragging, drawers slamming, kids chattering. I closed my new exercise book and reached into my backpack for my lunch box. White bread sandwiches, a banana and three Anzac biscuits, which Nan must have made. The biscuits were irregular shapes, not perfect circles like the ones from the supermarket. A memory of packing my own lunch flashed through my mind. Muesli bar, organic fruit, a flat bread roll, or, if Chris hadn’t eaten it all while he was correcting assignments, left-over paella. By the time I took out the biscuits and closed the lunchbox lid, the rest of the class had gone.

Mr Agar strolled down the aisle and sat on Klay’s desk. ‘So you’re the famous Jim Alexander’s grandson.’

‘Famous?’ I asked, my face screwed up.

‘Absolutely. Jim’s a living legend around here. Backbone of the community.’ Mr Agar leant forward. ‘Surprised we haven’t seen you around here before.’

I shifted in my seat.

Mr Agar leant back. ‘Where’d you go to school in Melbourne, Callum?’

I avoided looking at him. ‘St Patrick’s.’

Mr Agar nodded. ‘Did you like it?’

‘I guess.’

‘Bet your favourite subject was PE.’

‘Why?’

‘Just a guess. Do you play footy? ’

A chill seeped down my arms. ‘Nah.’

‘Grandson of Jim’s not playing footy?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s a shame, with your build and height. What about basketball?’

This time I shook my head.

‘You’re not making this easy, Callum. Soccer?’

A chill ran through my body. ‘Not any more.’

‘Why’d you stop?’

‘Can I go, Sir?’ I asked, leaping to my feet.

Mr Agar frowned. ‘Sure.’

I strode towards the bench in front of the ramp. The noise of kids laughing, shouting and squealing drifted across the yard. After two bites of Nan’s Anzac biscuit I dropped it into the garden. A snail retracted into its shell as the biscuit landed beside it. I leant back and closed my eyes, soaking up the weak sunshine.

‘Make the most of it, Callum.’

I opened my eyes and sat straight. Mrs Gray was standing at the end of the bench, holding the ancient bell. ‘Winters are icy here. They used to be wet too.’ She held up the bell. ‘Want to ring this for me?’

‘I’ll be right.’

She studied me quietly for a moment before continuing towards the playground and oval. The bell rang out and echoed in the paved area.

The big kid with the slow voice, Luke, blundered around the corner. He was taller than me and much bigger. The other things that stood out about him were his hands. They were huge. He could hold a footy one-handed, easily. Not that I could imagine him playing footy. He ran like a prep kid, hands curled into fists, head down and face stern.

Luke stopped and stood over me. ‘Have you washed your hands?’ he asked.

I looked around to see who Luke was talking to.

‘Alexander Beetle,’ he said. ‘You have to wash your hands before class.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And you have to go to the toilet. That’s what recess is for.’

‘I’ll try to remember that.’

Frewen, Klay and two other kids came around the corner, shoulder-shoving each other. Klay slammed into Luke. Frewen’s laugh made goosebumps pop up on my arms. Nic’s face flashed through my mind.

‘Owww,’ said Luke, rubbing his shoulder.

‘Watch where you’re going, dufus,’ said Jack. Klay and the other two guys roared with laughter.

Why didn’t Luke stand up for himself? He was taller and heavier than them. Instead of fighting back he just hung his head and swayed. He reminded me of a zoo elephant—passive and defeated.

A group of younger girls, maybe in Year Seven or Eight, strolled around the corner. The blond girl in the middle stopped. Her smile faded when she looked from Luke to Frewen. Her face grew red.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked Luke.

Luke beamed. ‘Okay, Ella.’

Ella spun to face Frewen and his mates. ‘Leave him alone, you psychos.’

‘Us, psycho?’ said Frewen, arms folded. ‘We were just talking to him, SOS.’

‘SOS! Good one!’ Klay slapped his leg and elbowed the brown haired guy beside him. I think they called him Miffo.

‘SOS? It’s not even a word,’ said Ella, shaking her head.

‘It’s one of those acronym things. Stands for “Sister of Spaz”.’ Frewen high-fived his mates.

Something prickled in my throat. ‘Think of that one all on your own?’

Ella swung around to face me, her eyes narrowed. ‘Stay out of it.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. Luke and I don’t need your help.’

Frewen and his mates made ‘ooohing’ sounds.

I felt my chest tighten. ‘What’s your problem?’ I asked Ella.

‘You. Stay out of my face.’ Ella marched towards the rest of her group, standing on the ramp watching.

‘Ouch!’ cackled Frewen.

‘That’s gotta sting,’ said Klay.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and turned my back on the group of grinning people now gathered around Frewen and his mates.

Back in the classroom, Mr Agar rummaged through his briefcase. Klay and Jack, heads together, discussed something by the window.

The blond girl sitting in the seat in front of me spun around.

‘I’m Shelley, and this is my friend Em.’ While Shelley spoke, she stole glances at Frewen. ‘About before, you know, outside? Luke, the kid up the back, well, he’s ... special.’ She was trying to sound sincere, but instead sounded patronising. ‘And Jack, well he’s kind of a legend around here. He’s captain of the Hawks.’

‘The Hawks?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘The Hawks—Winter Creek Football Club. Probably better if you get along with him.’

‘Probably,’ I said.

‘Anyway, Em and I will, like, show you around school at lunch.’

‘Maybe.’

Her eyebrows came to life, first arching, then crashing into a frown. ‘Maybe?’ She made a strange sound and turned to the front of the class, flicking her hair off her shoulders. When Em realised Shelley had lost interest in me, she turned and flicked too.

I buckled my seatbelt and felt my shoulders relax. It surprised me how good it felt to be back in Grandpa’s dirty ute and away from that school full of psychos.

‘How was your day?’ asked Grandpa.

‘Okay.’

‘Did you meet Jack Frewen today? Your grandmother thought she’d ask Jack over on the weekend. After football, of course.’

‘I’ll be right.’

Grandpa sighed and started the car.

Outside the school fence, Frewen bounced the footy. When he saw me, he tucked the football under his arm and stared. Luke walked between the car and Frewen. I saw Frewen’s lip curl, then he bounced the footy and kicked it straight at Luke, hitting him between the shoulder blades.

Luke spun around, his face twisted. When he saw who’d kicked the ball, he picked up the footy and tossed it back. Frewen, Klay and Miffo cackled.

I clenched my fists.

‘Ahh, there’s Jack,’ said Grandpa, winding down his window.

How could Grandpa have missed what had just happened?

‘Gidday, Frew,’ called Grandpa.

‘Hi, Mr A,’ called Frewen, smiling.

Like magic, his snarl had gone.

Instead of Grandpa, it was Nan who picked me up after my third day at school. Apart from a hello when I climbed into the car, she didn’t speak all the way to Marrook. Not that I cared. If I had a choice between her barking at me and silence, I’d take silence every time.

Nan parked beside the garage. ‘I thought he was fixing fences,’ she said, watching Grandpa clip one of the kelpie’s collars to a short chain attached to the back of the ute’s cabin.

I left the Subaru without answering.

‘How was your day, Callum?’ asked Grandpa.

‘Okay.’ After three days of the same answer to the same question, you think he’d give up.

‘Finished with the fences?’ asked Nan.

Grandpa patted the kelpie’s neck. ‘I’ve done all I can alone. Think I’ll move the last mob of ewes before lambing.’

Nan pulled a face at him.

Grandpa took a slow breath. ‘Like to give me a hand, Callum?’

‘Great idea,’ said Nan, before I could speak. She snatched my bag from me.

‘I need to change.’

My grandmother grimaced at my ‘Make Poverty History’ hoodie. ‘No need.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Grandpa.

I trudged around to the passenger door. The kelpie, Jilly, leant towards me, tongue hanging from her mouth. I stroked her ear.

‘Why don’t you come to training with me tonight?’ asked Grandpa, winding down his window.

‘I’ve got homework,’ I lied. As if I’d want to hang out with old bowling blokes.

Something twitched in Grandpa’s jaw. Elbow sticking out the open window, he drove past the cypress trees where the other kelpie was barking and leaping on its kennel.

‘How come you haven’t let that one off?’ I asked, watching the dog rush forward, only to be wrenched backwards by the chain.

‘Star? He’s too energetic for pregnant ewes. Jilly won’t stress them as much.’

Grandpa didn’t ask me to open the gate when we reached the gate past the woolshed. He just stepped out of the ute and did it himself. Instead of stands of cypress trees, the paddocks out here were dotted with massive gum trees. A mob of sheep was spread across a hilly paddock with hardly any trees.

‘Are they the ewes we’re moving?’

‘Yes,’ said Grandpa. ‘We’ll bring them up to the woolshed paddock, then down the side and behind the tractor shed.’

‘Why move them?’

‘The paddocks near the house are more sheltered. Better protection for the lambs.’

‘I don’t get why you lamb in winter if the cold’s a problem.’

Grandpa glanced at me, his face hard to read. ‘Winter lambs are weaned in spring when there’s more feed in the paddocks. At least that’s how it used to be, before the drought. Now we have to feed out just about every day. Costs us a fortune.’

Grandpa put the ute in neutral and opened the next gate, leaving this one open. He drove in a wide arc behind the ewes. They lifted their heads and watched, their thick fleece more grey than white.

‘See how their behinds are whiter than their fleece?’ Grandpa asked. ‘We crutched them a couple of weeks ago, so they’d be right for lambing.’

I nodded, though it all seemed too weird.

Once we were in the far corner of the paddock, and behind the sheep, Grandpa put the ute in neutral and let Jilly off. She glided across the ute tray and hit the ground on all fours like a cat.

‘Easy, now,’ he said, back in the cabin.

Jilly trotted forward, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. The sheep ran, joining into a tight bunch in the middle of the paddock.

Grandpa followed, the speedo needle hovering below ten. ‘So this Christos, he’s an artist?’

I rubbed my palms on my jeans. ‘Art lecturer. He’s into art history, that sort of stuff.’

‘Is he Greek?’ asked Grandpa.

‘Nah, Australian.’

‘Oh,’ said Grandpa. ‘Christos—it sounds Greek.’

‘His mum and dad were born in Greece. They’re both dead now.’

‘Did you spend much time with them?’

‘His dad died before Mum met Chris. His mum died when I started at St Pats.’ I didn’t tell Grandpa that I used to call Christos’s mum Yaya.

Grandpa whistled out the window and Jilly sprinted after a ewe that had broken free of the group. ‘All your clothes have that greenie stuff on them?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘You’re a walking billboard,’ said Grandpa.

‘Mum buys them. She’d rather spend money on something that gives twice—you know, supports a cause.’ I folded my arms. ‘When I had a job, I bought my own stuff. Without slogans.’

Grandpa shook his head. ‘Vegetarian. Global warming. Sounds like she’s turned into a hippy. She doesn’t buy organic food and burn incense too, does she?’

I shifted in my seat.

Grandpa tutted. ‘A hippy.’ He made it sound like she was a criminal. He didn’t speak again until after the ewes were in the paddock near the house. At the garage, Grandpa stopped the car. ‘You can get out, Callum. I’m going to feed Star and Jilly.’

I climbed out and went inside.