Dreamrider

B
ARRY
J
ONSBERG
lives in Darwin in the Northern Territory. He divides his time between writing and part-time teaching and finds it very difficult to do one without the other.
Dreamrider
is his third novel for young adults.

The whole business with Kiffo and the Pitbull
was shortlisted in the 2005 Children's Book Council Book of the Year Awards, Older Readers.
It's not all about YOU, Calma!
won the 2006 Adelaide Festival Award, Children's Literature. Both books are enjoying international success.

P
RAISE FOR
:

T
HE WHOLE BUSINESS WITH
K
IFFO

AND THE
P
ITBULL

‘
This is the best teen fiction I have read in years. Barry Jonsberg's
first novel is an absolute riot.
The whole business with Kiffo and the Pitbull,
should be on every Year 10 syllabus in the country. If
this book doesn't make them want to read, nothing will.
'

Cameron Woodhead, T
HE
A
GE

‘
Jonsberg's writing is fresh and bites with fierce teenage realism.
'

A
USTRALIAN
B
OOKSELLER
& P
UBLISHER

‘
This first novel is very funny, serious and brilliant.
'

Centre for Youth Literature

‘
Witty and original, this is one story not to be missed
.'

Bea, YARA website

I
T
'
S NOT ALL ABOUT
YOU, C
ALMA
!

‘
This book is one I found impossible to put down after finishing
chapter one
.'

Christine, YARA website

‘
Entertaining and thoroughly rewarding –
It's not all about YOU, Calma!
resonates throughout with a tender and humane realism.
Highly recommended
.'

A
USTRALIAN
B
OOKSELLER
& P
UBLISHER

Barry Jonsberg

Dreamrider

First published in 2006

Copyright © Barry Jonsberg 2006

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web:
www.allenandunwin.com

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Jonsberg, Barry, 1951– .
Dreamrider.
ISBN 1 74114 461 2.
I. Title.
A823.4
Design by Ellie Exarchos
Set in 10.5/16 Apollo by Midland Typesetters
Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Teachers' notes for
Dreamrider
are available from
www.allenandunwin.com

For Brendan, Kari, Kris and Lauren

There is something wrong with the light. I'm not sure what. I'm not sure of anything.

I keep my eyes closed. It's easier. I focus on the pain in my leg and the pain in my arm.

Pain is simple.

Unlike everything else.

When I open my eyes, the light is a blade. I feel the sides of the bed. Hard, cold, burning. People move within the light, touching, talking and then leaving. I don't trust them.

I'm sick. I don't know where I am. Why, is too big a question. So I close my eyes and hug the darkness with pain at its centre. I am drowning in a sea of doubt. Memories are my lifeline. Images appear in the dark.

I remember . . .

Contents

Monday

1

2

3

4

Tuesday

1

2

3

4

Wednesday

1

2

3

4

5

6

Thursday

1

2

3

4

5

6

Friday

1

2

3

4

5

Saturday

Author's note

Acknowledgements

1
.

I killed two kids at school today.

My first day. I wandered the school grounds, looking for differences. The way the sun hit the grass, the arrangement of litter, the smells.

They came at me from opposite sides. I kept my head down. Part of me knew it would do no good, but I walked and watched from the edge of vision.

‘Hey. You. Fat bastard.'

On cue. Like a film you've seen before so you know the words before they're spoken. I walked. Kept my head down, looking for differences. I couldn't see any.

‘I'm talking to you, fat bastard.'

I stopped. But I kept my head down. Still.

A blade of grass. I watched. It differed. Maybe the way the spine curved, or the sheen of green. Wrong, somehow. An insect crawled along the blade's curve. It changed the world. Everything changes the world – the insect on the grass, the shadows over the oval.

They arrived. I heard their breathing. Their dark shadows slanted across the grass. I waited.

‘I'm talking to you, fat boy. And when I'm talking to you, you should look at me.'

‘Yeah. Look at him, fat boy.'

I looked at him. He had freckles. A face someone had doodled on, not getting the patches of colour right. Dark red hair. Matted, as though he hadn't showered in a week. His eyes were light blue, the colour of pale flowers in cold climates. I tried to see beyond them. I can do that. There was only pain, loneliness and fear. There's always fear.

We stared at each other, the fat boy and the boy with ice for eyes.

And I waited.

‘So what have you got to say for yourself, fat boy? Eh? Why'd you ignore me? Too good for me? Is that it, huh? He thinks he's too good for us, Damien.'

Damien was small, thin and wiry. An athlete. His eyes were screwed up. I couldn't read them because he was facing the sun. He stood like someone who owned the ground beneath him.

‘Yeah. I reckon, Callum. Why do you think you're too good for us, fat boy?'

‘I'm just a fat boy,' I said. ‘That's all. I'm not too good for you. I'm not good enough. I'm fat. I'm nothing.'

The red-haired boy was confused. It happens that way sometimes. They want the right to attack. But I was agreeing. If they bashed me now, they'd feel bad about themselves. And they wanted their punches to be pure. Righteous.

The red-haired boy shifted, put his hands on his hips.

‘Are you taking the piss, fat boy?'

‘No,' I said.

‘Well, I think you are. What do you reckon, Damien? Is he taking the piss?'

‘Yeah. He's taking the piss big time. You're asking for it, fat bastard. So why don't you say you're sorry? Maybe if you apologise, we'll forget it this time.'

The red-haired boy moved in a little.

‘Yeah. We need an apology, fat boy.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said.

Callum poked me in the chest with a hard finger.

‘You need to
show
you're sorry. How about on your knees? Yeah, get on your knees and say you're sorry for taking the piss.'

So I got down on my knees. In the middle of the oval. As though I was praying. I bent my head. The blade of grass was closer now and still wrong. I focused. The insect climbed its plane, the east face of a green mountain. I counted the legs. They seemed right. And then I saw the difference.

It was subtle. The way the light hit the stalk. The sun was behind me, and the boys' shadows pointed away, towards where it would set. But the light on this blade of grass came from the wrong direction. The right side of the blade was polished, burnished by light, and the left shadowed. Wrong. The tip of the blade, curved away from me, should have been touched by gold.

I knew. So I stood.

‘I told you to get on your knees, fat boy,' said Callum.

I looked at him closely. Once I notice the first difference, even if it's small, others follow, bigger and bigger, until the whole world is different. Callum's eyes were brown now. His freckles shifted into a birthmark on his right cheek. His hair was a darker shade of red. Like rust.

I could take my time, so I turned to Damien. He had shrunk and the athlete was gone. He no longer squinted into the sun, because the sun had moved directly above us. I wanted it that way.

‘I'm not sorry,' I said. ‘I haven't done anything to be sorry about. You started this. Not me. So I'm not sorry and I'm not getting down on my knees.'

Callum glanced at his mate. My words were a detour into unfamiliar territory and he had no map to give directions. I wanted him to bluster. So he did.

‘I don't care what you think, fat boy,' he said. ‘I don't give a shit. So you'd better say sorry real quick or . . .'

‘I'll be sorry?' I said.

‘Yeah,' he said.

‘Look,' I said. ‘I'll tell you what I think and you'll listen. Every school I've been to, you were there. Sometimes you were taller, sometimes smaller. Your hair changes, your clothes change, but you don't. Not what's inside. It's always dark. I can taste it, that darkness. And it tastes of blood and fear and hopelessness.'

‘You're weird,' said Damien.

‘It's time to hit me,' I said.

The boys glanced at each other. Nervous. Callum's eyes shifted back to me. One had turned green. His fist balled and he rocked back on his heels to get the weight right. He was scared, but he had to punch me now. I'd given him no choice.

His fist swung back and I put my face forward a little. I watched as the knuckles arced towards me. It was not a bad punch, considering I had chipped his confidence. I'd felt worse. When his fist landed on my cheek, just below my left eye, I felt the bone give. But I didn't fall.

Callum stepped back and rubbed his hand. Blood snailed down the side of my face. I smiled.