Dropping In (8 page)

We all crack up and then his mum hops in with him, the paramedics close the door and they take James away.

Ranga and I stand on James' driveway with James' dad, waving even though we know James has no hope of seeing us.

‘Thanks boys,' James' dad says.

‘What for?' Ranga says.

‘For being good friends.'

Ranga looks puzzled. He hasn't thought about it at all. He's just been doing what comes naturally to him. I wish I was like that too, but I can't help thinking about
everything. Sometimes I try not to think at all but then I realise that I'm thinking about not thinking. Doh!

At recess Ranga and I sit on the benches at the canteen eating a slice of cheese on toast each, like we used to before James came, but it's not the same. There's something missing. It's strange that nothing was missing before James came but now he's not here there is: same bench, same school, same cheesies, Ranga and me, but there's this hole in the air next to us where James should be.

‘Do you reckon he's in the operating theatre by now?' Ranga says around a mouthful of toasted cheese.

‘Maybe.'

We're quiet for a while and then Ranga says, ‘You know how it's Big Rubbish Day next week?'

‘Yeah?' I say.

‘Well there's a couch out the front of a house around the corner from the roundabout.'

‘So?'

‘Well, you know how James wants to skateboard but it's never going to happen?'

I nod.

‘Well, what if we put skateboard wheels on the couch, then James could sit in between us and we could go
flogging down the hill from your place all the way to the park.'

‘How would we steer?'

‘I've got an idea for that,' says Ranga.

In the back of my mind I'm remembering the ramp he built on my driveway, but this idea seems so much better.

Just after lunch the PA system calls me to Mr Sutton's office again. I'm walking up there trying to think what I might have done. Nothing comes to mind. I'm up to date with assignments and homework, thanks to Mum's hassling, and I haven't broken any rules. Ranga hasn't done anything either, except get in that fight at the skate park, and that isn't anything to do with the school. But it must be Ranga 'cause I really haven't done anything. My guts are churning.

The lady behind the office desk smiles at me, all friendly. ‘Have a seat, Ian,' she says. ‘The principal will be with you soon.'

I sit over by the planter box watching people come and go, mostly just delivering messages or cashbooks from the different teachers. Everyone who comes in here talks softly. It's the atmosphere. It feels a bit like a library, except no one's reading. I feel like it's a law court
and I'm about to be sentenced.

Finally Mr Sutton calls me into his office.

‘Sit down, Ian,' he says.

I sit on the chair he gestures to. It's comfy, with armrests. If only we had these in the classrooms. I lean back, but only a little. You can't slouch in the principal's office.

Mr Sutton doesn't say anything for a while. He just stares at the desk in front of him, frowning slightly, making his mind up what to say, or how to say it. Finally he speaks. ‘How have you been, Ian?'

‘Good,' I say.

He points to my elbow. ‘Had an accident?'

‘The skate park,' I say.

‘Trying for air?' he says.

It sounds so wrong, coming out of his mouth. He probably wants me to relax but it will never work. He's the principal and I'm a kid, in his office. He should just get it over with.

And then he does. ‘Ian, it's about Warren.'

So it
is
Ranga. I feel anger rising up inside me. I sit forward. This time they aren't going to twist what I say.

‘I told you, the black eye last week was from his skateboard. It happened in our driveway. The ramp we
built broke and it hit him in the eye.'

‘The ramp?'

Mr Sutton is acting like that social worker, trying to trip me up with stupid questions. ‘No, his skateboard,' I snap. I'm angry.

Mr Sutton actually smiles. ‘Yes,' he says, ‘I know, Ian.'

We sit in silence for a minute. I reckon he's thinking about Ranga and his next question. I'm thinking about getting out of there.

Finally he speaks again. ‘Were you there when he got the split lip?'

Split lip! Teachers notice everything! I have to be careful here. ‘No,' I say, ‘but James was. Ranga was defending James from a bully at the skate park.'

Mr Sutton just stares at me. It makes me feel really uncomfortable and I look away, but then I think that it makes me look like I'm lying so I make myself stare back and he looks away, down at his desk.

‘You're certain?' he says.

I want to shout at him, ‘What are you saying? Do you think I'm a liar?' but I don't. I just say, ‘They came around to my place just after it happened.'

Mr Sutton nods. ‘Thank you, Ian. You've made things a lot clearer for me.' He jots something in a notepad and I
sit there waiting for a minute or so before he looks up and smiles. ‘That will be all. You can go back to class now.'

I'm at the door when he calls, ‘Ian!'

I freeze and then turn slowly.

He's smiling. ‘I don't think Warren will have anything to worry about from now on.'

I stare at him. It takes me a few moments to figure out what he means. Then I mumble something and head back to class. It feels like a cloud has lifted. I think Mr Sutton actually listened to me and believed me. I'll have to wait for lunch to tell Ranga about it. He's got English now and I've got maths but that's cool.

I like algebra. I like getting real-life problems and making up equations and solving them. Let x equal the number of apples and y equal the number of boys. If only life could be solved like that. Then it would be easy. The trouble with life is that x might start out being the number of apples but then someone eats one, or you find out that one is rotten, or one is really an orange and all your problem-solving doesn't work any more. Still, in maths the logic is clean. You can work things out and there is a right answer that doesn't change, even if other people don't agree. Right is right, no matter what they think. Yes, maths is like a rest for my brain.

After school Ranga and I walk down to the house near the roundabout. I've been busting to tell him how Mr Sutton called me up to his office but there were always other people around at school. Now's my chance. I tell him all about it and when I say that I think Mr Sutton believes me he looks relieved. Then he tells me that he likes Mr Sutton.

‘That's weird!' I say. ‘Mr Sutton busts you all the time.'

Ranga shakes his head. ‘Mr Sutton doesn't hate me. He's fair. If you do the crime you have to do the time.' He sounds like Mum and Dad.

But Mr Sutton isn't Ranga's biggest problem. ‘What about the social worker?' I ask.

Ranga shrugs. ‘I don't know. Mum hasn't done anything wrong. They can't do stuff to you just because
they think something, can they? They'd have to have proof.'

‘Well I reckon you've done a good job of proving that you are the worst accidental-self-mangler in the history of the universe.'

Ranga laughs, then he points at my elbow and hands. ‘Except for you,' he says.

True, but for different reasons. I'm just bad at skateboarding. Ranga takes crazy risks.

The couch is still near the roundabout, on the verge, beside a pile of other rubbish. We walk up to it and feel the cushions. They're a bit damp. They've been outside for a couple of days so it figures. It doesn't matter because they'll dry out quick enough if we can get them under shelter. They might smell a bit though.

We knock on the door of the house and ask the guy inside if we can have the couch. He says we can as long as it doesn't end up on the side of the street somewhere. ‘No,' Ranga says. ‘We've got big plans for this couch.'

It's only about one hundred and fifty metres up to our house and the couch is quite light, but we have to put it down a few times because it's awkward and cushions keep falling off. The edges of the wooden frame dig into my hands and they're still tender from my skateboarding
accident. It takes ages to get it home and my hands are stinging when we put it down on the garage floor.

Mum and Dad said it would be alright if we worked on the couch in our garage. Lucky they didn't ask what we plan to do with it. Just telling them we plan to fix it up seemed like enough explanation. Mum even backed her car out so we could work on it this afternoon. Doing it in here is extra good because James won't spot it from over his place when he gets back from hospital as long as we keep the garage door closed.

We need to get some wood for the steering so we head out again to scavenge around other Big Rubbish Day piles. As we walk heaps of cars cruise by with people checking out what's being thrown out. Every so often one stops and someone gets out and raids a rubbish pile. Mum always says, ‘One person's trash is another person's treasure.' It's true! Some of the stuff looks really good to me. There's a wide-screen TV at the other end of our street. I want it for my bedroom but there has to be something wrong with it, otherwise why would they throw it out?

Around the block we find what we're looking for. There is a pile of wood like the stuff they use on pergolas stacked outside. There is a lady home and she tells us we
can have what we want as long as we leave the pile tidy. All we need are two bits and we're set.

I want to draw a plan, but Ranga says he's got it all set out in his head. We tip the couch upside down and he puts one of the pieces of wood across the bottom, sticking out in front about a metre and a half.

‘Screw that on,' he says.

‘I'll measure it first,' I say.

‘What for?'

‘So it's even.'

‘It doesn't have to be exactly perfect,' Ranga says. ‘It'll work fine where it is.'

I've already got the tape measure out. It really gets up his nose. I can see him getting angry.

‘It'll only take a second,' I say, measuring across the couch. ‘What's half of one point nine metres?'

‘Ninety-five centimetres,' says Ranga, quick as a flash.

‘How'd you work it out so quick?'

‘One point nine metres is ten centimetres short of two metres, so half of that is one metre minus half of ten centimetres is ninety-five centimetres.'

I fold the tape over from ninety-five centimetres and there it is — one point nine metres. And some people say Ranga isn't smart.

I mark the centre and we use Dad's drill and some screws to fix it in place.

‘Now for the T-bar,' says Ranga. He grabs the other bit of wood and places it on the end, sliding it back and forth until it looks right. Then he marks his place with his thumb and grabs the saw.

I'm busting to measure something, but what? What's the difference if it's exactly one metre or not? Where Ranga marked it looks pretty right.

‘Hold it!' I say.

‘What?' he snaps.

‘I'll mark it square.'

Ranga sighs. ‘If it makes you happy.'

I'm annoyed, but I mark it out anyway. He saws it off and works out where the centre is. Then we drill a hole through both pieces of wood and bolt them together with washers in between so it will turn easily. All we need to do now is screw two pieces of wood to the back corners of the couch so we can attach the skateboard wheels there. Ranga has two spare trucks from an old skateboard and, because I can't skate at the moment, we use the trucks off my skateboard to finish the job.

When the wheels are screwed into place we turn the couch over to test it. Ranga sits in the middle with one
foot on each side of the T-bar and I push him across the garage. It rolls as easily as a skateboard and it turns pretty well but if you turn it too tightly it sort of hooks around and tries to throw you out.

‘Let's test it down the hill,' Ranga says.

‘Not today,' I say. ‘James' parents will be home soon and they'll see it.'

I'm expecting an argument but he just nods.

‘Yeah,' he says, ‘it's not worth the risk.' So we roll the couch down to the back of the garage and put a tarp over it.

We head inside for a drink after all our hard work. I've just got the fridge open when Mum comes in. ‘Do you boys want to visit James in hospital tomorrow afternoon? I think he'd like that.'

‘I'll have to ask my mum when I can go, Mrs Whyte, but I'd like to,' Ranga says, as polite as you like.

Mum beams at him.

Maths is boring today without James. Ranga is in ordinary maths so he's not here either. Just me!

Ranga really should be here in advanced maths. People think he isn't smart enough but he could be good at maths if he really wanted to be. Look how good he was at working out measurements yesterday. He says he can't stand having to learn about things if there's no point, and that there's definitely no point to algebra or calculus, but I reckon he just likes subjects where he can use his hands, or at least get up and move around every so often.

I remember at primary school, when he used to get bored in maths because he already knew what to do. He had to sit there and wait while the class went over, and over, and over what we were learning until everyone else got it too. Before long he'd start wriggling around and fiddling. You were supposed to go on with other activities
if you finished work, but Ranga didn't like them so he'd do something else, something he thought of himself, like when he built a machine out of rubbers and rulers. When he pulled a lever on his side it pushed his sharpener on the other side of his desk. It was cool, but then the sharpener fell off the desk and burst open. Shavings went all over the floor and the teacher made him clean it all up at recess. He missed out on running around like a maniac all recess like he usually does so he was twice as toey afterwards when we were back in class. He ended up getting an in-school suspension that day.