Bleakboy and Hunter Stand Out in the Rain (3 page)

4

HUNTER

It's lunchtime and Hunter is in the boys toilet block, again. He looks into the mirror and smiles.

‘Walter,' he says to himself. ‘What a stupid name.'

A year two boy walks in. He looks at Hunter and says, ‘Pardon?'

‘Think of a name,' Hunter says.

The boy looks behind him, not sure if Hunter is talking to him.

‘A name. Any name,' repeats Hunter.

‘Samuel,' the boy says.

‘That's your name, isn't it?'

The boy nods.

‘Okay, Mr Original, think of another name.'

Samuel shuffles from one foot to the other. He needs to go to the toilet. ‘Ralph,' he says.

‘Your dog's name, right?' says Hunter.

Samuel can't hold on much longer. He nods and takes a step toward the cubicle.

‘One more name,' says Hunter.

Samuel feels his bottom lip wobbling. He looks at his shoes and notices one lace is untied. He mumbles, ‘Hunter.'

‘You want to name the toilet block after me?' Hunter grins.

‘No! I didn't mean … Pete!' Samuel suggests.

Hunter laughs. ‘Pete, the place to pee!'

Samuel walks toward the cubicle.

‘The toilet's broken,' Hunter says.

Samuel's face goes red. He can't hold on. He bites his top lip and tries to think of something other than his overriding need to pee.

‘You can use the girls toilet,' Hunter says.

Samuel takes a step backward, then stops and says, ‘But … but what if there's a girl?'

‘Close your eyes,' Hunter says. Samuel rushes out of Walter. Hunter can hear his hurried footsteps, next door in the girls toilet. Then over the partition, ‘I only want to wee!'

Hunter smiles. He looks at his reflection and rubs his hand through his hair. Time for a new haircut.

He checks his watch. Ten minutes before lunch finishes. He thinks back to the class discussion on whales and wonders if Kate was making a joke about him. What was she saying while he was at Walter?

The only way to find out is to ask Jesse. That new kid can't tell a lie. Hunter will force it out of him, if he has to.

Hunter ambles around the schoolyard, on the lookout for Jesse. He's probably playing with some of the younger kids, Hunter imagines. Such a sonk.

‘Hunter,' an adult voice comes from behind.

Hunter keeps walking.

‘Hunter!' The voice is more demanding.

Hunter turns around.

‘Didn't you hear me the first time, Hunter?' says Larry.

Hunter shrugs.

‘Well, that's not the issue,' says Larry. A group of year nine girls walk between the two of them. Larry motions to the bench seat, under the pine trees. Hunter follows, reluctantly. Larry sits down. Hunter remains standing.

‘I've had a complaint,' says Larry. ‘From a … well, it doesn't matter who it's from. There's a rumour that Walter is defective.' Larry looks toward the kindy kids playing on the climbing equipment. ‘Do you know where this could have started, Hunter?'

‘Yep, Larry. It was me,' Hunter admits.

Larry had been expecting denials. ‘This is very serious, Hunter.'

‘I know, Larry.'

Larry scratches his beard. ‘The young boy in question, could have had an unfortunate … accident. If you get my meaning.'

‘Absolutely,' says Hunter.

‘I must say, Hunter, I didn't expect you to admit to such behaviour,' says Larry.

‘I'm proud to, Larry.'

‘Proud!'

‘You bet. Just imagine what would have happened if I hadn't stopped the boy from using the toilet.'

Larry looks aghast. ‘I'm sorry?'

‘The toilet, Larry. It was broken. I saved the boy from getting soaked.'

‘That's … that's not what I understood.' Larry stares at Hunter. ‘I've just come from Walter, Hunter. All the toilets appear to be working fine.'

‘I know, Larry. After I stopped the boy, Samuel I think his name was, I spent five minutes jiggling with the toilet, fixing it.'

‘Well … how am I,' Larry stammers.

‘Don't worry, Larry. It's free. I wouldn't dream of charging the school. I'm just glad Samuel let you know of the incident.'

Music starts. Disco Inferno. There are a few minutes until the end of lunchtime. Larry doesn't move. Hunter elaborately checks his watch. ‘I'd better go, Larry. I want to borrow a library book.'

Larry nods and watches Hunter stride away.

Hunter can barely contain his laughter.

5

jesse

I'm scrunched down as low as possible on a beanbag in the library, the smallest room in Edith. I'm holding the largest book I can find to offer myself the most camouflage. Hunter is probably on the warpath and in his sights are not whales, fur seals, bilbies or chimpanzees.

I almost burst my lungs trying not to laugh in class and look where it's got me. Luckily, the words ‘library' and ‘Hunter' rarely mix, so I snuggle down and contemplate the nutritional value of whales. Yep, Kate did nothing but repeat the information that can be found in our own library. If Sue, the librarian, only knew what was on her shelves.

Whale meat is low in cholesterol. I wonder if I should tell Dad. The only animals we eat at home are fish and free-range chicken. At least once a week, over dinner, Dad says, ‘We steer clear of red meat in this house'. Then he waits for us all to laugh at the pun. No-one does.

‘Get it,
steer
.' He chomps on his wild Atlantic salmon, satisfied he's fulfilled his father-humour quota for the week. Sometimes, Mum joins in. ‘No bull, dear,' she titters. If we were a normal family, we'd be eating dinner in front of the television, so Beth and I could concentrate on
Home and Away
and ignore this comedy double bill.

‘Good one, Faith,' says Dad. ‘There's no kowtowing in this house.'

This is obviously nonsensical, but it brings a huge laugh from Dad. He's on a roll now. He looks across the table at me. ‘You don't have a beef with our humour do you, son?'

Luckily my mouth is too full of wild Atlantic salmon to answer.

‘May I be excused?' asks Beth.

‘You want to be alone, Beth,' he says, ‘to stew in your own juices!' Dad almost falls off the chair, he's laughing so much. Beth looks at me and rolls her eyes.

‘Anthony, stop ribbing our daughter,' adds Mum.

What on earth has possessed these people? Is the salmon contaminated with mercury causing immediate brain damage? Mum reaches across the table and pats Beth's wrist. ‘Sorry, Beth. You can go as soon as you've finished eating.'

Beth scoffs her food at a furious rate and takes her plate across to the sink.

A shadow passes over the beanbag.

‘You seem engrossed in that book, Jesse James Jones,' says Sue, the librarian.

I nod.

Sue sits in the opposite beanbag. She takes off her glasses and cleans them on her ‘Books before Bombs' t-shirt. She's wearing loose-fitting trousers, with a wide belt that has a Harry Potter buckle, the slash mark on his face prominent.

‘What's it about?' she asks.

‘Animals,' I answer.

‘Don't tell me about animals,' she laughs.

Have you ever noticed when someone says, ‘Don't tell me about', it means they're going to give you a twenty-minute lecture on what they just told you not to tell them about?

‘We've got a veritable zoo at home. Cats, dogs, budgies, sheep, a pig called—'

‘Babe?' I interrupt.

‘How did you guess, Jesse? And cows, lots of chickens, even a few geese and ducks,' Sue says.

As she's talking, I flip through the pages to D for duck. Yep, duck is the national dish of France. She really should take care with the books on display.

‘My husband and I run a rescue service for animals,' Sue adds.

For some reason, I picture her in a lifesaver's uniform running into the ocean to rescue a pig that's fallen off a surfboard. The pig is floundering in the fast-moving rip, one trotter held aloft as it feebly attempts to snort for help. Sue, a surf ski under her arm, dives into the waves, jumps on the board and paddles to where Babe was last seen.

‘Did you hear what I said, Jesse?' Sue asks.

‘Yeah. No. Sorry?'

‘You can visit if you like. We have lots of animals to feed. Babe would love to meet you. He's such a friendly pig.'

Hunter is standing beside the entrance to the library, peering through the window. The window fogs up with his breath and I slink lower into the beanbag. Thank Trevor, he didn't see me.

‘You have a customer,' I whisper to Sue.

She looks around as Hunter walks through the door. ‘Hello, Hunter. We were just talking about pigs.'

It really is Hunter's day for being compared to animals. Hunter snorts and walks away, not even bothering to answer Sue.

‘Sorry about Hunter, Sue,' I say. ‘He's a little upset, since his pet goldfish died.' I can't resist adding, ‘Maybe you should invite him to your farm. He'd love to meet Babe.' I get up to leave. ‘But don't mention the fish, okay? He's trying to …'

‘Move on?' Sue suggests.

I nod and wave from the doorway, careful as I step into the corridor that Hunter isn't lurking.

6

HUNTER

Hunter stands on the corner of Lister and Brighton Streets, looking across at the football oval and the young players running laps. He thinks of his father and how years ago, he'd wait expectantly for his dad to come to football training. Ha! Hunter remembers looking at the car park instead of the football, his coach blowing the whistle to get his attention. Only once in the two years Hunter played footy did his dad turn up to training. And even then he spent most of the time on his mobile phone. He never made the Saturday game. Work. As if that one word was excuse enough. And then his father left home for good.

Hunter sighs and carries his bag to the fountain in Elkhorn Park. He watches the young woman in trackpants and sweatshirt punching the gloves of her personal trainer. She skips from foot to foot and throws a punch with a loud exhalation of breath. Droplets of sweat fly from her forehead with every punch she throws. Hunter hopes her personal trainer can revive heart attack victims. The trainer signals a break and the woman rests on her haunches. The trainer offers her a water bottle. She drinks it quickly, water spilling down her shirt.

‘Hey, leave me alone,' a voice calls from the opposite side of the park. It's Samuel, the boy from the toilet. He's reaching for his backpack which is being swung in the air by Watson Watts, from year five.

Watson towers over Samuel and gloats, ‘Come on, you can do better than that'. Samuel jumps up and nearly grabs the strap, but Watson pulls it away, just in time. Samuel swings his arm at Watson, who easily dodges it. Then, Samuel crosses his arms and waits. Watson swings the bag a few more times and flings it onto the grass, a few metres away. The boys look at each other, neither moving.

‘It's all yours,' Watson says.

Samuel takes a deep breath, looks around the park for help, sees no-one but Hunter at the fountain and decides to make a run for it. He sprints toward the bag, but Watson overtakes him and scoops it up with one deft movement. Samuel falls to the grass and starts to cry.

Hunter notices Watson is holding only one bag: Samuel's. He scans the park and sees Watson's bag on the bus-shelter seat. ‘Ha!' He walks casually over to the shelter. The name tag reads, ‘Watson Watts'. What a stupid name, Hunter thinks. He picks up the bag and walks toward the boys. Samuel sees Hunter first. He buries his head in his hands, afraid of what's going to happen next.

‘Hunter!' calls Watson. It takes him a minute to notice that Hunter is carrying two bags and one of them is his.

Hunter turns to Samuel instead of Watson. ‘Hey, Samuel,' says Hunter, his voice flat and quiet. ‘Which bag do you want?' Hunter holds Watson's bag in front of him. ‘This one, or yours?'

‘That's mine,' says Watson.

Hunter and Samuel ignore him. Samuel points to his own bag, still in Watson's grip. ‘Mine,' he says. ‘Please.'

Hunter stares at Watson. Watson looks furtively around the park. The woman and her personal trainer are jogging away, heading toward the path along the creek.

‘We were just having fun, weren't we, Samuel?' says Watson.

‘No,' says Samuel.

‘Come on, Hunter, it's just a game,' says Watson, his voice uncertain.

An old man drives slowly along the path on his mobility scooter, his shopping in the basket on the handlebars. He wears a peaked cap and has a pipe in his mouth, the smoke trailing behind, like a faulty exhaust. He slows down when he passes the boys.

Watson says, ‘Hey.'

The old man stops his cart. He takes the pipe out of his mouth. ‘Can I help you?' he says, in a deep voice.

Hunter smiles. ‘No, thank you, sir. Watto thought he recognised you, that's all.'

The old man looks at Samuel on the grass. Samuel nods his head. Watson swallows hard and doesn't say a word. The old man puts his pipe back into his mouth and takes a slow puff, before driving away.

Once the man is out of hearing range, Watson chucks Samuel's bag on the grass. Samuel jumps up, gathers the bag and runs past Hunter to the path beside the creek.

Watson looks at the ground and says, ‘Can I have my bag, Hunter?'

Hunter waits until Samuel is out of sight.

‘Come on, Watto.' He smiles. ‘You can do better than that.'

7

jesse

On the way home from school, Kate catches up to me at the street corner. She's whistling a slow mournful sound. We don't speak until she finishes.

‘That sounded so sad,' I say.

Kate smiles. ‘It's the mating call of the humpback whale.'

‘A live humpback whale,' I add.

Kate giggles. ‘Skye is such a …'

‘Stresshead?' I suggest.

‘Blubber guts! And I don't mean whale blubber either.' Kate looks at me. ‘You were the only one who understood, Jesse.'

I nod.

‘I thought Sarah would get it,' Kate says.

‘Teachers are scared of tears,' I say.

‘I was going to suggest we all write protest letters to the Japanese Embassy.' Kate smiles. ‘I thought we could save the whales and get out of maths in the same afternoon.'

‘Algebra makes my brain hurt,' I say.

‘The only good thing about maths is watching Hunter squirm in his seat all afternoon,' Kate adds.

‘How many times can one boy go to Walter?' I say.

‘Maybe his bladder and brain are connected,' Kate says.

‘Yeah, and they're both leaking,' I respond.

Kate laughs. ‘Is that toilet humour?'

She stops walking and takes off her backpack. She rummages inside and brings out her notebook. ‘Do you have a pen, Jesse?'

I reach into the side pocket of my backpack and take out a pen, handing it to her. On a scrap of paper, Kate writes something and gives it to me, along with my pen.

‘The Japanese Embassy?' I ask, stuffing it in my pocket.

‘Of course,' she says.

‘I'll write soon,' I say. I wonder what Trevor would think about saving the whales. I'm sure he'd support it. Then, as usual, the next thought I have is if Trevor really supported the whales, he'd have a word … upstairs … to God.

‘What are you thinking about, Jesse?' Kate asks.

I swallow hard. Kate never called me Jesus Freak last week, when Hunter turned on me.

‘You could ask somebody else,' my voice is quiet, ‘to stop the whaling.'

Kate nods. ‘I've already sent letters to the Norwegian and Canadian Embassies.'

‘No, I mean …' I look up into the sky.

Kate notices. ‘You mean …' She points a finger to the heavens.

‘It can't hurt,' I say.

Kate shrugs. ‘I imagine if he,' she giggles to herself, ‘or she is up there, they'd have more important things to do.'

‘Like stopping wars?' I suggest.

‘Yeah.' Kate punches me on the arm. ‘Or stopping themselves from falling out of the sky. Why do people always look up for God?'

‘Maybe he floats like a hot air balloon,' I suggest.

‘He or she definitely doesn't sit on a cloud. I've been on a plane heaps of times and clouds don't look heavy enough to hold somebody as important as …' She points skyward again.

‘My parents tell me not to worship false gods,' I admit.

‘My mum says the only supernatural thing in the universe is,' Kate touches her heart, ‘inside us. It's what we do that counts.'

‘But who makes us do it?' I ask.

Kate laughs. ‘Dad says it's all nonsense and everyone knows the only true God plays in the midfield for Barcelona.'

We stop walking as we reach Elkhorn Park. Hunter is swinging a schoolbag wildly around his head. Watson is trying to grab it off Hunter, who holds him at bay with one outstretched hand.

‘Hey!' Kate yells.

Hunter slows down his swinging and Watson manages to grab the bag. Both boys pull. Watson stumbles to his knees, but holds onto the bag. Hunter lets go of the strap and walks toward us. Behind him, Watson clutches the bag and hurries away. Without meaning to, I tighten the grip on my backpack.

‘Bleakboy and Whale-eater,' says Hunter.

I look nervously toward Kate, wondering how she'll react. She doesn't say a word. I follow her example and we both stand silently a few metres from Hunter.

His glance wanders to my Dunlop Volleys. ‘My uncle wears shoes like that,' he says. ‘Old-man tennis shoes.'

He looks from Kate to me. ‘You couldn't hit a tennis ball if you tried, Bleakboy.'

There's really nothing I can say to respond, so I bite my lip. Kate stifles a yawn. When it's obvious neither of us is going to react, Hunter starts looking uncomfortable. His eyes flit from Kate to me, looking for something else to pick on.

Kate smiles.

‘How do you eat so much blubber with railway tracks on your teeth,' Hunter says.

Kate stops smiling. I think her braces give Kate an infectious smile, but I've never said that to her.

‘You'd better not walk too close to a magnet with all that metal in your mouth.' Hunter mimics being drawn into a wall face first. He calls out, in a deliberately muffled voice, ‘I'm stuck, I'm stuck!'

I can hear Kate's teeth grinding with the effort to remain silent.

Hunter looks scornfully at both of us. ‘Talking to you two is like talking to a wall,' he says. ‘A metal wall.'

Kate yawns, this time not hiding her mouth with her hand. Both sets of braces are showing. She glances toward me and tilts her head, indicating we should leave. She turns away from Hunter. A second later, I do the same. At the far end of the park, Watson is about to board a bus home, both hands clutching his backpack.

Hunter calls from behind us, ‘Bleakboy and Whale-eater.' His voice echoes across the park until we cross the road. I sneak a glance back and see Hunter standing alone wondering where Watson has gone and wondering what to do next.

Kate says, ‘It works!'

‘Pardon?'

‘Mum told me about non-violent protest.' Kate frowns. ‘I think that's what she called it. She said the best thing to do when somebody picks on you is nothing.'

‘Somebody should tell Watson,' I suggest.

‘Hunter didn't know what to do,' says Kate.

‘Yeah, but …' I don't want to say the obvious.

‘But what?'

‘If I was here alone, just boy against boy, Hunter would have been swinging my backpack, not Watson's,' I say.

Kate shakes her head. ‘You'll never know until you try it.'

I giggle. ‘You mean I should offer myself to Hunter? To pick on?'

Kate punches my arm lightly again. ‘We have the power, Jesse.'

I rub my arm. ‘No. I have old-man tennis shoes.' We both look down. ‘And Hunter has the muscles,' I add.

Kate just smiles and taps a finger to the side of her head as if to say brains beat brawn.