A Straight Line to My Heart (6 page)

By half-time the local lads are done for. The guy with the ice-cream van is doing a fair trade, but if he sold black armbands he'd make a fortune.

‘I think we should get a girls' team together next year,' Kayla says. ‘We'd have to be better than these losers.'

The Blues prance off the oval like cup-winning racehorses: straight backs and beaming smiles. The Gunners limp and trudge, heads down and shoulders sagging. A crane couldn't lift their morale, though Dusty tries his best.

‘“A” for effort, men,' he says as they straggle past. ‘Don't worry about the score – numbers mean nothing – you'll run over the top of them in the second half.'

There's no clubhouse at Gungee. The teams change in the toilets and flop down on the grass at the break. Both sides are only four or five metres away from us.

Dusty picks his way over a battlefield of bloodied arms and legs, dispensing oranges, bandaids and fatherly slaps on the back. He doesn't bother with a motivational speech. The boys need their rest.

I look around for Big Foot and see him at the same time as he sees me.

‘Hiiii!'

I act as if I don't hear him.

‘Hiiii!'

It's like pretending you don't hear a foghorn when it's stuck in your ear.

I give him the smallest wave I've got. That's all the encouragement he needs. He bounds up to me, smiling broadly.

‘Hey. Library girl. Thought it was you.'

‘Hey. Toilet boy.'

‘Toilet boy – good one. How's it goin'?'

‘It's going really good.' I show him my book. ‘I'm up to a very exciting part and I just can't wait to find out what happens.'

That's about as big a hint as I can give, but hints only work if the other person is listening.

‘Got a bit lucky out there,' he says. ‘Scored a try. This is only my second game, too. You see it?'

‘No. When?'

‘Just then. In the game.'

‘Oh. Interesting. Shame I missed it. I was reading.' I turn to Kayla. ‘Did you see anything?'

‘Nuh. Not me. What happened?'

‘Yeah, sure.' He smiles. ‘Almost had me goin' there. I'm Davey.'

‘I'm Kayla.'

As they shake hands he says, ‘Well, that's two people I know in Gungee Creek: Kayla and my pal from the library – Tiffany.'

He remembered.

‘You don't mind if I call you that, do you? I really like that name.'

‘She hates it,' Kayla says. ‘Don't you, Tiff?'

‘Um . . . sometimes I don't mind it.'

‘Come on!' bellows one of his team mates. ‘We're waitin' for yer!'

‘One minute!' He turns back to us. ‘The coach wants to give us some pointers. He's all into motivation and–'

I tune out from what he's saying and tune in to looking at him. The negatives are hard to ignore. He's a Big Foot all right, with a dash of Neanderthal thrown in. His body is ungainly and sprawling; hard to know where the muscles end and the fat takes over. And his bushy hair, which can't make up its mind if it's black or brown, sticks out at all angles and is streaked with grass stains, dirt and a liberal drenching of sweat.

There's not a whole lot on the plus side, unless you're a soppy idiot who believes in stuff like kindness. I can't help feeling he's got that. It's in his voice, his smile and his eyes.

‘Numbnuts!'

Big Foot blushes. ‘They call everyone that.'

‘Over here. Move it!'

‘Gotta go! See yers!'

And he runs.

Kayla watches me, watching him.

‘You like him, don't you, Tiff?'

‘Puleeze. Give me more credit than that.'

‘Okay then. What's so wrong with him?'

‘He's not my type.'

‘What is your type?'

‘Normal.'

Tom mackenzie's voice booms over the loudspeaker.

‘We've got a couple of raffles to draw today: one for Gungee, one for Tarwyn. Have your tickets ready.'

It's the perfect excuse to escape from Kayla before she asks any more dumb questions. Mrs Muir is straining to read the numbers on her tickets, and I'm glad to help out.

‘No, you haven't got that one. Or that one. Or that one. Sorry, Mrs Muir. That's all there is. You didn't win.'

‘That's quite all right, dear.' She gives me a smile like a sunflower. ‘I have a lovely time just being alive. A person can't be too greedy.'

I like Mrs Muir. She always cheers me up.

On the way back to Kayla I stop off to see Reggie. He says he's feeling awful.

‘Stay right there and I'll get Bull,' I tell him. ‘We'll take you home.'

‘Why? There's nothin' wrong with me. It's the Guns. They're gettin' hammered. That's why I feel awful.'

‘Dusty oughta get you out there,' I say. ‘You'd soon turn things around.'

‘Couldn't do any worse, luv.'

Next stop is Bull.

‘You are playing a complete blinder.' I lower my voice. ‘But your back must be aching. You're carrying the whole team.'

‘True, mate,' Bull says. ‘Bloody hopeless lot they are. Only trouble is I taught 'em everything they know.'

A strong hand grips my shoulder. I look up and see Zoe.

‘Hi ya, Tiff.' Bull gets a kiss. ‘Sorry I'm late. What's the story? Are we winning?'

I leave it for him to break the bad news.

‘Catch you later.'

Then I'm back with Kayla for The Slaughter, Part Two. It's not a lot of fun to watch the pride of Gungee getting squashed under foot. Of all the team's supporters I'm the only one who has a moderately good time. Thanks heaps, Mr Dickens.

Now and again I look up to see how Big Foot is doing. It's purely zoological curiosity. He's a strange beast; unlike the boys I know. Or maybe I only think that because he's cheerful and friendly – and when he talked to me just now there wasn't a raffle book in sight. I'm sure he's not interested in me, not really, though it's comforting to know that there are guys like him out there – weird, gangling, goofball guys. But nice ones.

With fifteen minutes in the game still to go, the loyal Gunners' fans start packing up and searching for their car keys. I understand how they feel. It's forgivable to drive slowly past the scene of a disaster, but after nearly two hours and a picnic lunch you really should leave.

‘Oopsy.'

Clash of heads in a tackle. Big Foot and Bull. It looked like an accident but that doesn't matter. I've seen this sort of thing before and I know where it's going.

Big Foot pushes Bull, who shoves back just as hard.

I can't look.

Have to look.

Please don't hurt him, Bull.

They spar around for a few seconds and then Big Foot starts throwing punches. Bull blocks one with his mouth but isn't fazed. He raises his fists and crouches low, dancing about and looking dangerous. It's like a warning: ‘This is what I've got. I was a boxer. I can take you anytime. Don't mess with me.'

Big Foot punches him again. Another mouth block. Suddenly it swings from boxing to wrestling as Bull goes for the body slam, sending him sprawling backwards. Now both of them are rolling on the ground and trying to kill each other.

Their teammates pull them apart just as the ref marches up. He points to the sidelines and shouts, ‘Off! Both of you! Off!'

They slouch from the field together. Bull's buddies give him a cheer and a ‘Good on you' and he responds with a cheesy grin. No one boos or hurls abuse at Big Foot – either because we're a friendly bunch or he's simply too damn big to mess with. Just the same, he keeps his head down all the way; looks to be taking it bad. The Blues' support team waits for him as he goes through the gate. He pushes past them, refusing to talk or listen. His mouth is bloodied and that look on his face is familiar. He's stolen it from me: it's my furious, ‘I hate the world' look. But it's a lot worse than mine ever was.

My eyes follow him as he runs up the hill, pulls open the door of the team bus, climbs in and slumps into a window seat. For a moment he looks at me. Or did I imagine it? Then he ducks his head down and he's gone.

Of course, my loyalty is to Bull, but a quick glance tells me he's in good hands. He's got a few minor cuts and scrapes, that's all. Reggie is on one side of him and on the other is Zoe. He's being fussed over and he's lapping it up. Doesn't need me.

Kayla says something – Where you going? What are you doing? – one of those. I'm not even sure if I answer. All my attention turns to Big Foot.

I follow the path he took up the hill, and knock on the door of the bus.

Nothing.

‘Just tell me you're okay. That's all I want to know.'

Nothing.

‘Then I'll have to smash a window – because you might be hurt, you might be bleeding to death. If you don't talk to me I have no way of knowing. So stay right there while I go find a brick . . .'

I back my judgement and don't go anywhere. In only a couple of seconds the door swings open and I step up and go inside.

Big Foot slumps behind the driver's seat, head buried in his hands.

‘Thanks for letting me in.'

‘Sawright.'

‘I've got a bad temper, too.'

He sighs. It's like he's saying: ‘When is she going to leave me alone?' When I'm good and ready – that's when.

‘Sometimes I just lose it' – I'm thinking of The Great Sunflower Attack – ‘but usually I'm able to control myself because I've developed an anger management technique. You want to hear about it?'

‘Not really.'

‘Well, what it is, see, is I drop books on people I'm angry with.'

‘Look, Tiffany–'

The more I hear him say my name, the more I like it.

‘I don't feel like talking right now. Maybe some other time.'

‘Sure, sure. I get it. That's exactly how I am when I'm angry. Bull comes to talk to me – he's the one you punched, by the way. He's like my uncle, big brother – take your pick – it's complicated. He's also a cop. Of all the guys out there, you pick the cop to punch. Good one. Anyway, Bull comes into my room and I go mental and throw stuff at him and tell him to rack off – only I don't say rack. But, you know, I really like it that he makes the effort. That's why I thought I'd come over and see you. Didn't want you to be angry all on your own.'

He looks up at me. At last.

‘You're a weird chick, aren't you?' That's what he says to me.

‘Good observation.' That's what I answer.

A glad, happy look breaks out on his face. I mean, really breaks out, as if it's been held captive by the forces of doom and gloom and now it's on his face and stretching out and smiling at me.

‘So you drop books on people?'

‘Yep.'

‘And that's a good thing?'

‘Aw yeahh. Not real books because I would never damage a book. No way. What I do is – say I'm you. Right?'

‘You're me.'

‘Okay. I'm playing footy. Having a fine time. And then this gorilla headbutts me. I realise later it was an accident, but at the time I'm not in a fit state to realise anything, because all I can think of is killing the fool. You with me so far?'

‘I might even be ahead of you.'

‘Good. Now here's where our approach differs. Instead of punching out like a maniac, as you did, I would have closed my eyes and used my imagination to build a plane.'

He looks doubtful. Can't imagine why.

‘Trust me. This works. I do it all the time and I can't even use a screwdriver. I build the plane – it takes a second – jump in and take off. Then I swoop low over the head of my victim and wave at him from the cockpit. That alone feels amazing. He starts running and I can see the fear on his face, but there's nowhere to hide. Now here comes the really good part. I open the bomb doors. One thousand copies of
War and Peace
land on him –

‘Five hundred and sixty thousand words in each book.

‘Hard back covers.

‘Large print edition.

‘The pen is mightier than the sword!'

He mulls it over for a second, before telling me what he thinks.

‘Yeah,' he says, nodding, ‘you are full-on weird.' But he says it with a smile.

It seems like a perfect time to leave – while I'm winning.

When I get back to Kayla she's full of questions for me. I give her answers trimmed to the bone.

‘Just thought I'd make sure he was all right.

‘He hardly said anything.

‘I said a lot of rubbish.

‘And no, I don't expect to ever see him again.'

That night I type the day's adventures into my journal. For the first time I don't call him Big Foot. He's Davey.