Dreamrider (9 page)

1
.

I dream of Mum.

We are on a beach. I'm building sandcastles and the sun is reflecting off the waves. Little shards of light, like splinters, hurt my eyes. Mum is lying on her back on an orange towel. Dad is wading out of the surf. I squint against the sun. He is a dark cutout, impossibly thin, diamond flashes of light on his silhouette. Mum gets up, pushes hair away from my eyes and smiles at me. My sunhat is tight at my temples, loose and floppy across my shoulders. My hands are small and podgy. They fuss with the wall of a castle, patting crumbling sand into place. Mum rubs cold, oily sunscreen into my back, but my attention is fixed on the castle. It's falling apart.

I know I'm dreaming but do nothing to alter it. Not when I dream of Mum. I feel her hands across my skin and I feel the texture of the sand. The sun is a tingle on my bare legs, the sound of the surf a heartbeat. Dad throws himself down next to us. Another castle slips and slides and he cups it in his hands, smoothing it. He grins at me, but I frown back. He's not doing it right.

Mum calls to me from a distance and I look up. She is in a car and the sound of the waves is building. The rhythm gets faster so the pulse becomes a throbbing roar. Dad has gone. I see Mum through the windscreen. She seems asleep. Her face is very pale. There is a ticking sound and colours flare. I am aware of a pain in my left leg. I want to run but something picks me up and the world turns dark.

I sat up, my heart thumping. No glass this time. That only happens when I Dreamride. Through the curtains the first glow of dawn washed my bedroom in pastels. I waited as my breathing slowed, and felt the pain in my leg. My left leg. Sharp – as though I had been stabbed. The pain swelled. I threw back the covers and examined my pasty flesh. Nothing. Not even a bruise. But the pain felt real.

I swung myself out of bed, hobbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower. As the cold water sprayed over me, the pain faded. By the time I towelled myself dry, it had become a dull ache. I sat on the toilet and tried to make sense of the buzzing in my head.

Maybe I was going mad. A Möbius strip! Just a scientific curiosity, something to amuse schoolkids. What next? Wormholes in space, stupid theories about the curvature of time, parallel dimensions? I needed to keep a grip on reality. Yet I could still taste the sugar on my tongue and feel the twinge in my leg. I knew I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about twisted planes, but another school day awaited. I had to deal with that.

Mary wasn't in the kitchen, but the door was ajar. I knew I would find her in the garden. Sure enough, she was behind her favourite palm tree, having a smoke. She jumped when I snuck up on her.

‘God, Michael,' she said. ‘I thought you were your dad!'

‘You should give up,' I said.

She took another drag.

‘Your dad, or cigarettes?' she said.

She was red around the eyes.

‘Are you all right, Mary?' I asked.

She flicked the butt into the undergrowth and rubbed at her face.

‘Oh, take no notice of me,' she said, with a weak smile. ‘I didn't sleep well, that's all.'

I knew why. Waiting until I had gone to sleep, going back to her bedroom, harsh words whispered, insults from Dad, lying in the darkness wondering how to get through another night, another day. Possibilities can be scary at times.

‘Listen, love,' she said. ‘I don't feel crash hot this morning. Can you make your own breakfast? I just want to stay in the fresh air.'

‘Smoking cigarettes?'

‘So shoot me,' she said.

‘No problem,' I said. ‘The breakfast, that is. Not the shooting. And I'll bring you a cup of tea.'

‘You're a good boy, Michael.'

I made myself a couple of rounds of toast. Plenty of butter, so the rounds were heavy and yellow. Dad wouldn't be up for a while. He'd need to sleep off the grog. I risked a third slice and took a cup of tea out to Mary. She hadn't moved.

‘You're a lifesaver,' she said.

‘You're not going to leave, are you?' I said. The words came out in a rush. ‘I wouldn't blame you if you did, though.' My legs were trembling. I couldn't bear it if she left. I couldn't bear knowing it was my fault. Mary snapped her head up. She spilled some of her tea.

‘Michael! What makes you ask such a question? Of course I'm not going to leave.' She put her cup on the ground and her arms around me. ‘What nonsense you talk sometimes. You are the dearest thing in the world to me. As long as you want me here, I'll be here. Okay?'

I nodded, but the possibility was fixed in my head. The fear that one day I'd get up, find a note, an empty kitchen and the smell of cigarette smoke fading into nothing. Like Mum's perfume. I used to smell it everywhere. Now I can't remember it at all. Everything fades in time. All I had was Mary and the Dream. I couldn't cope with losing either one. I wanted to tell her that, but it didn't seem fair.

‘I'd better get off to school,' I said.

She smoothed my hair from my eyes, even though it didn't need it. For a moment I thought she was going to say something else, but she just sighed and nodded.

‘Mikey, I'm so sorry, but I haven't done a packed lunch,' she said. ‘Listen, take a ten from the pot. Get yourself something from the school canteen.'

There was a pot on a shelf in the kitchen. Once a week, Dad put money in it for groceries. I put receipts from the supermarket back in it, with any change. He balanced the accounts on a Sunday.

‘He'll know,' I said.

‘Not until Sunday,' she replied. ‘Even then, you can always say you lost a receipt, or something. That happens.'

It had. Twice. And I'd had to get all the groceries out and Dad and I had gone through them, writing estimated prices down on a piece of paper until the shortfall in the pot had been accounted for. So I knew he'd find out this time. But the thought of chicken satays or a burger and chips was powerful. Maybe I could find a receipt in the rubbish bin at the supermarket that added up to ten dollars. Maybe he wouldn't look too closely at the items on it.

He'd find out. But it would be worth it. While I was eating, that is. I took sixty from the pot. I had to pick up some groceries on my way home anyway.

The walk to the bus stop got rid of the last of the pain in my leg. It was going to be a hot day. The sun was pale and watery through the trees and the mist on the horizon was burning off. Within hours, the sun would be fierce and the humidity would climb. Already I could feel damp in my armpits.

Nothing happened on the bus ride. Leah didn't get on. Martin didn't get on. Every time the bus stopped I watched the queue of kids out of the corner of my eye. I didn't relax until the aisle of the bus filled with jostling bodies and the school came into view. I waited until everyone else got off before I stepped down.

I stood blinking in the sunshine and waited for the crowds to thin. There were so many things going around in my head. Martin Leechy, obviously. Jamie Archer. The Year 10 Social, Leah and Mary. Most of all, a woman with darkness in her head, and a strip of twisted paper. I needed a calm day to sort out my thinking.

It started well. Home Group was quiet. Leah stayed with her friends, though she hovered around the edges and didn't seem to talk much. A few times I caught her watching me. Mr Atkins was also deep in his own head, but I couldn't read what he was seeing. He might have been thinking about something at home. It was impossible to tell.

I sat by myself, close to the window, and looked outside. Instinctively, I checked for differences. If two worlds could twist and join – if that was possible – I might be able to see differences appear in reality, as they did in the Dream. I didn't see any, but the exercise calmed me. I almost drifted off, it was so peaceful.

The trouble started in the first lesson.

2
.

Maths.

I sat at the side of the room while the others found their seats. A knot of boys, the last group to enter the classroom, bustled in. Martin Leechy was among them. I opened my Maths book and bent my head over it. Even as I did, I knew it wouldn't do any good. He sat next to me, fingers laced together on the desk, staring straight ahead at the teacher. He didn't get any books out.

Mr Williams, the teacher, took the roll. He didn't read out Martin's name. I could only hope he'd notice a boy who had no business being there and send him on his way. I hoped it wouldn't take too long.

Mr Williams closed the roll book and stood up. He wrote ‘Trigonometry: Sines, Cosines and Tangents' on the whiteboard and turned to face us.

‘Game over!' he yelled and the thrum of conversation dwindled and died. ‘Thank you.' He pointed towards the whiteboard. ‘The module we are starting today is a tricky little devil. And that means you have to pay attention. What is this module like, Gemma Watkins?'

‘A tricky little devil, Sir.'

‘Spot on. Now, you must ask if you don't understand. I do not mind explaining things ten times, if necessary. Actually, that's a lie. But it is better than having to explain later, when it becomes clear you did not pay attention first time around. Capisce?'

Martin leaned towards me.

‘Thinks he's cool, doesn't he?' he whispered. I didn't react.

‘Cool,' continued Mr Williams. ‘We are on the same wavelength. Okay, exercise books out . . . yes, that means you . . . and copy down the heading on the board. Quick, guys.'

For about five minutes, Martin was quiet. He still hadn't got a book out. He sat staring straight ahead, chin in hands, while Mr Williams explained about trigonometry. The only sound in the class was the scratch of pen on paper as we copied down. Martin cupped his hands around his mouth and leaned towards me again.

‘Decided on your costume for the Social yet?' he said. I ignored him. He poked me in the ribs with a finger.

‘I'm talking to you, Michael. Don't ignore me.'

I put my head down and kept quiet. He poked me in the ribs again, harder this time.

‘Whoa. It's not a good idea to ignore me, Mikey. I don't like being ignored. It hurts my feelings. You wouldn't like me when my feelings have been hurt.'

‘Please,' I hissed.

Mr Williams stopped pacing and glared at us. He stood for a moment and then continued talking, punctuating his explanations with notes on the board.

‘Please, what?' said Martin a minute later. ‘What do you please want me to do? I can't please you, if I don't know what you want.'

I ignored him and he jabbed me in the ribs again. It really hurt this time. I had to choke back a gasp of pain. I glanced up and Mr Williams was writing on the board, his back turned nearly all the way round from us. I had to take the risk.

‘Later,' I said, as quietly as I could. ‘I'll talk to you later.'

There was a giggle from the back of the class and Mr Williams spun to face us. He looked directly at me.

‘Michael, isn't it?'

I nodded. He wrote my name carefully in the top right corner of the whiteboard and then turned to smile at me.

‘Michael, you are new here and maybe you don't understand the rules of the game. Just to let you know. In my class, you are quiet while I'm teaching. That way we all have the chance to learn. First warning and your name goes up here.' He pointed to the whiteboard. ‘Second time and you're history. Capisce?'

Another giggle started, but was instantly cut off as the teacher's gaze snapped on someone behind me.

‘Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir,' I said.

Mr Williams smiled and turned back to the board. He wrote nearly all of an equation before Martin's fist slammed into my side. I couldn't help it. I yelped in pain. Mr Williams paused, the pen hovering over the board. Then he turned slowly. He was still smiling.

‘Well, Michael,' he said. ‘Clearly not that sorry. Unless my maths fails me, that is strike two! Collect your bag and wait outside the classroom. We will have words later. Ciao.' His smile never wavered.

The class was completely quiet. I could feel all eyes on me as I packed my exercise book and pens away. I squeezed past Martin and headed for the door. Some of the students were grinning as I walked down the aisle, but most kept their heads down. So much for keeping a low profile. First there was the cake in the face, then falling asleep on the oval and now being thrown out of Maths class. It was only Wednesday morning. Not even halfway through the first week.

I closed the door behind me. Harsh fluorescent lighting illuminated the long corridor. Classroom doors were shut and everything was quiet, apart from the occasional murmur of voices from one room or another. I stood for a while, my back pressed against the wall of the Maths room. I checked my watch. There were still forty minutes of the lesson left. I slid down the surface of the wall and sat on the cold tiles. At least I'd got away from Martin. Time for thinking.

I thought about him first. Do something. That's what Mr Atkins had said about Jamie. It's what Dad said as well. Fight back. They agreed on that, if not on the means. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe the only way to get bullies off my back was to challenge them to fight. I'd get the crap beaten out of me. I had no doubt about that. Of course, in films it wouldn't matter. I'd be fighting back. I wouldn't give up. My opponent would respect me for my guts. At the end of the fight, he'd help me to my feet, put an arm around my shoulder and say, ‘Hey, guys, this kid is all right. No one's to mess with him, do you hear?' And then he'd help me clean myself up and we would become best friends.

Trouble is, I just can't ball my fist and force it into someone's face. Ask someone to eat dog shit and they'd be defeated just by thinking about it. That was me. My whole being shrank from the idea. Kids quickly learned that I couldn't fight back. I might as well have worn a sign saying ‘Hit Me' on my shirt.

Mr Atkins's way was with words and at least I wasn't scared of words. But I still knew I couldn't do it. I had little enough in common with kids my own age. I couldn't talk about stuff like that to adults. Even if I could be sure of getting away with it. Anyone who knows anything about schools knows that.