Don't Kiss Girls and Other Silly Stories (16 page)

This is good.

‘The bottle you just threw in the bush,' she says through gritted teeth. ‘Made of plastic that will take hundreds of years to break down. The one that will probably get washed into a river, float down to the ocean and end up killing a turtle.'

‘Why?' I say. ‘Can't turtles drink milk?'

She goes red. I may have pushed it too far. I brace myself, ready to get slapped, then dumped. Or maybe I'll get dumped, then slapped.

But before she can do either, a boy pops out of the bushes like one of those army guys – only instead of camo gear he's wearing a green school shirt. ‘I think you dropped this.' He's holding my bottle.

What a goody-goody school shoes.

But, hang on, I know this boy. His name is Joey Mulligan and, like his older bro David, he's not a goody-goody at all. He's a baddy-baddy.

‘You shouldn't litter,' he says to me. ‘Now put this in the recycle bin in the undercover area.'

Yeah, as if I'm gonna do that.

‘Or else we'll have to kill you,' he adds, pointing to his posse.

Four boys are standing a few metres away, their caps on crooked and their school pants hanging around their bum-cracks. They look small but tough. Like a tribe of pygmy warriors.

I take the bottle and shake my head. There's something wrong with the world when tough little tackers threaten good people like me for
littering
.

Joey goes back to his gang and Mr Massingham steps out from the end of the bush and gives him five. I'm not talking about a hand slap, either. I'm talking about five bucks!

What the hell is going on?

Then Mr Mass walks over to us, a serious look on his face. It looks like I'll not only get myself dumped for littering but I'll get a detention, too. Oh, well. I'd rather hang out in the detention room at lunchtime than the library, anyway. It gives you more cred.

‘Great work, dude!' Mr Mass whispers to me.

Ashleigh raises her eyebrows. ‘I don't get it …' she says.

Neither do I, but I say nothing and grin. It's one of Rossy's new rules: When confused, act amused.

Besides, now he's up close I'd rather not get on Mr Mass's bad side. When it comes to detecting crazy streaks I've got a sixth sense and it's telling me that Mr Mass has one the size of the Amazon.

‘Well,' Mr Mass says to Ash, ‘I'm sure your fella here will fill you in on all the details.'

He looks at me. So does Ashleigh.

‘I could …' I say. ‘But I'll let you do it, sir.'

‘You sure?' Mr Mass asks.

‘Positive.'

‘Fine with me,' he says. ‘You see, Tony must have heard me give that group a huge dressing-down for littering.'

He looks at me for confirmation.

I nod. ‘It was
massive
.'

Mr Mass continues the story. ‘I told them that if I saw them litter one more time, I'd make them pick up rubbish every lunch hour until Year Twelve. But I also told them that if I saw them do something good for the environment, I'd reward them. I believe in the stick
and
the carrot.'

Ash goes ‘ahhh' but I'm still puzzled. What's a carrot stick got to do with anything?

‘So, when Tony threw his bottle away in front of the group,' Mr Mass says, ‘it gave their ringleader, Joey, a chance to impress me. And I must say, he did.'

Mr Mass holds out his hand and I give him the bottle. In exchange, he hands me five bucks!

‘You impressed me too, Tony.' He smiles. ‘Very quick thinking indeed. Why don't you buy your pretty little lady a chocolate chip cookie after school – organic, of course.'

He walks away.

Ash turns to me. ‘That's what I love about you, Tone. You're always surprising me.'

‘I surprise myself sometimes.'

Ash takes my hand and we walk to SOSE in silence. My mind is still trying to figure out what the heck just happened, but all I come up with is that my plan of getting Ash to break up with me has backfired again.

But, on the bright side, at least I made five bucks. I look at it as I walk. It's purple and smooth and a quarter of what I need to go to the monster truck show that's coming to town. At least something good has come out of today.

Then, quick as a fish, Ash snatches the money from my hand.

‘Hey!' I say.

‘I walk right past the organic shop on the way home,' she says. ‘I'll buy us both a cookie and bring them tomorrow.' She gives my hand a squeeze. ‘Thanks a lot, Tone. You're such a sweetie.'

I'm about to say something sour when I see Devo on the landing above us, looking down. He points a finger at me and I hold my tongue.

‘No worries, hone
y,' I say, through gritted teeth. ‘No worries.'

Poetry in Motion

Christine Bateson is no teacher. You can tell because she doesn't wear any shoes, just a bright summer dress and a toe ring.

The visiting poet sits cross-legged on a desk and smiles down at us. ‘Close your eyes, everyone.' Her voice is sweet like syrup. ‘I want you to think about the last thing that made you cry.'

That's easy. During maths earlier, Gavin Fox did a huge blow-off that had me in tears.

‘Now,' she says, ‘I want you to write down the word “like” and then finish the sentence by comparing that sad event with something you can see, hear, taste, feel or smell. Don't think too hard, just write down the first image that comes into your head.'

Also easy. I scribble it down.

She gives us some
more instructions and then says, ‘Pens down, everyone.
You've just written a poem. Congratulations!'

A poem? The last one of those I wrote went something like, ‘There was a young boy from New York. Who stabbed himself with a fork.' Unfortunately, I never got to finish it. Miss Mason ripped it out of my hands, just because I was being creative in the back of the SOSE textbook.

‘Would anyone like to read their poem out to the group?' Christine asks.

Unfortunately for her the two biggest nerds – Brains and Astroid – are busy. Brains is on a science excursion and Astroid's got her hands full at the back of the room – they're all over Kane. She decided to give him a chance after he went to a protest march with her and held up a sign that said ‘Global Warming Is Not Cool!'
No one volunteers to read their poem, so Christine looks my way and smiles.

‘How
about you, good-looking?'

I turn around but there's no one behind. ‘Me?'

‘Yes, you.'

The librarian shifts uncomfortably in her seat, like she's got a staple in her butt.

‘Righteo,' I say. ‘Here goes.' I put on my most manly voice and pray it doesn't do anything stupid.

‘Like the rat
that died under my bed

Around the room it
spread

Gavin laughed and said

Baked beans on bread!

I
wanted to punch him in the head.'

I nod to let her know I'm finished.

It's quiet, except for the librarian shifting around again. Maybe she's got worms?

‘What's your name?' the poet asks me.

‘Tony. But you
can call me Rossy.' I wouldn't mind being friends
with her. For a hippie poet, she's pretty
hot.

‘Well, Tony …'

Uh-oh. She used my real name. I'm in trouble.

‘That was great!' she says. ‘It was full of life and humour and goes to show – a fart in the classroom can be the perfect topic for a poem.'

Kids laugh and the tension is broken. Even the librarian gives a small smile. This poetry stuff isn't as bad as I thought.

For the rest of the session, Christine helps students get ready for the competition. The closing date is tomorrow so most kids have written their poem and just have to change a few words here and there.

I haven't even started mine. That's because I couldn't be bothered doing it. But now I'm reconsidering. Especially when Christine kneels beside me and starts whispering in my ear.

‘What would you like to write about, Tony?'

‘Ummm … not sure, Miss.'

‘Call me Christine.'

Cool. We're on a first-name basis.

‘I'm sorry I'm not calling you Rossy,' she says. ‘But Tony's a beautiful name. Do you mind?'

‘No probs.' I make a devil sign with my fingers and start rapping. ‘My name is Tony. I'm no show pony.'

She gives her head a shake and her fringe flicks her huge eyelashes. ‘You know, poetry doesn't have to rhyme. In fact, it's often better if it doesn't.'

‘Really?' I don't think anyone's told Eminem that.

‘Yes, really. And there's no right or wrong in writing poetry either. You can do whatever you want.'

I grin. ‘I'm going to tell our English teacher that next time she gives me a D minus.'

Christine laughs. ‘You're
funny.' Then she turns serious. ‘But Tony,
I think you're using humour to deflect
your real feelings. To be a poet you need to
reach deep inside yourself and pull up powerful
emotions. May I?'

Before I know what she's asking she takes my hand. Whoa! This poetry stuff is getting better all the time.

‘Hmmm,' she says, rubbing a finger across my palm. ‘I can see you're wrestling with a dilemma.'

Hey, I think. How does she know that?

She studies my hand like it holds the answers to all of life's questions. ‘You're torn between two opposing forces – yin and yang.'

I'm not sure who those two Chinese blokes are, but the opposite stuff is true. Ashleigh's got dark hair and Lacey's a blonde.

She gives
my hand a squeeze. ‘You need to open your
heart and let your feelings flow onto the
page. Not only will you write a great poem, but
you'll feel better, too.'

She moves onto the next kid and I think about my life. About Ashleigh and Lacey and how I'm being pulled in a thousand different directions. About how Kane always lucks out while I'm often out of luck. And there's this puberty thing that's got me looking and speaking like a half-man, half-boy creature.

And then I stop thinking, and start writing.

At the end of the lesson, Christine comes back to read my words. She wipes her eye when she finishes. ‘Tony, this is good.
Really
good.' She takes my hand again. ‘I'm proud of you.'

I'm proud of me, too. ‘Thanks,' I say. ‘For everything.'

‘You're welcome.' She leans in close. ‘Don't tell anyone I said this, but from what I've seen you've got a good chance of winning the competition. A
very
good chance.'

Although I don't tell her, she's wrong.

You see, the most embarrassing moment of my life was when a Year Ten girl dacked me on the bus. It wouldn't have been so bad except that I forgot to wear underwear that day. But I reckon winning the school poetry comp would be even more embarrassing. Imagine what my mates would say?

So I can't win because I'm not going in it. This poem is for my eyes only.

‘You mind if I make a copy?' she says.

‘Sure.'

Mine, and the beautiful brown eyes of Christine Bateson.

*

Mrs Randall stands at the front of assembly. ‘I'm very excited to announce the winners of the middle school poetry competition.'

She waits for applause but
there is none. Footy is hands-down the biggest thing at
our school, followed by cricket, then chick sports like netball and dancing,
and right at the bottom comes debating, chess club and poetry
.

‘But firstly I'd like to thank our judges, Miss Mason and Mr Relf. They said that the standard of poetry in this year's competition was extremely high, which made their job most difficult.'

Yeah, yeah. Get on with it, I think.

‘In third place with a poem titled “Revolution”, please put your hands together for Astrid Reichelt.'

Some of Astroid's friends clap, as well as a few boys – probably because she's hot in a nerdy kind of way.

Astrid doesn't look at all happy when she collects her certificate. She would have expected to win.

‘In second place is a poem that really stuck to the theme of the competition – ‘denial'. It's about how giving up the pleasures of life, although difficult, can help us become better people. Here's a sample:

My
lips hum with desire

but my soul sings like an
angel's choir.

‘Please congratulate Ashleigh Simpkin!'

She gets a slightly bigger clap than Astrid because she's slightly hotter.

Mrs Randall gets really excited now. She speaks so loudly the speakers shudder.

‘And the winner came as a big surprise to me. He is obviously a boy of hidden talents.'

She must be talking about Brains. He probably wrote a poem called ‘SCIENCE'.

‘It's a short poem but very powerful.'

No, it can't be Brains. If he wrote a poem it would be 50 pages long, like his speeches.

‘According to the judges …' She puts on a pair of granny glasses and starts reading. ‘
This is a brilliant,
post-modern analysis of denial. Its use of empty space gives
the reader room to fill in the gaps about its
many deep meanings. An outstanding piece of work.
'

I'm getting a bad feeling about this. I don't know what most of what she said means, but my poem was quite short and I only wrote on every second line – which means there was lots of empty space. I hope Christine Bateson didn't enter the poem behind my back.

‘But before I announce the winner, I have something exciting to tell you.'

There's a groan from the audience. They want less poetry and more lunchtime.

Mrs Randall waits for silence. ‘I was buying some books this morning from Baxter's Bookshop and I just happened to have the winning poem with me, so I showed it to the owner. He was so impressed that he decided to sponsor the competition to the tune of $200, half to go to the winner as cash, and the other half to go to the library so we can build up our impressive poetry collection for you to enjoy.'

There are a few sniggers at this. The only poetry collection most kids at this school will ever read is the one on the back of the dunny doors.

But then it becomes quiet. Everyone wants to see who's going to win a 100 bucks, and now I'm hoping and praying that it's me. I could buy four monster truck tickets with that much cash.

‘And the winner is …' She pauses to build the tension. Gavin Fox uses the opportunity to let one go.

‘Kane Steele!'

Kane? What the …?

A buzz goes through the Year Eights, and it's not just because of Gavin's fart. No one expected Kane to win a poetry comp. He's a popular bloke who's good at sport, not a nerd.

As he stands and saunters through the group, I'm waiting for some blokes to chuck some smart-alec comments his way. I'll be the first one to laugh.

‘Lucky bugger,' says David Mulligan. ‘Wish I won 100 big ones.'

‘I might take up poetry meself,' says Gavin Fox. ‘Could help me hook up with the chicks.'

‘Trouble is you have no talent,' shoots back Megan Frost. ‘Not like Kane.'

Sally Bliss giggles. ‘You don't have a body like him either.'

What's going on? There's no slagging at all. Before I can think of something bad to say, Kane's up on the stage.

‘And now I'm going to ask Kane to recite his prize-winning poem in full,' says Mrs Randall.

Kane stands in front of the microphone and gives it a tap to make sure it's working. It is.

‘Good morning, everybody,' he says with a grin. ‘My poem is called “Nothing”.'

For about ten seconds he just stares out into the audience. Maybe he's having a mental blank?

‘Thank you,' he says, before walking off.

Kids look at each other, puzzled. So am I.

Then someone goes, ‘Ohhhh. The poem's called “Nothing”. Get it? Nothing.'

‘Yeah,' someone else says. ‘That's good!'

No, it isn't! I think. That's not a poem. It's nothing!

‘Please give Kane a big clap,' says Mrs Randall. Amazingly, kids do what she says.

As he cruises off the stage, Kane holds one hand up high. The one holding $100.

I just shake my head.

*

The best thing about today is that it's Friday. No lunchtime cultural activities, nothing for me to do but kick butt in handball.

I'm on my way there when I hear a familiar voice. ‘Hey, Tone.'

I pretend to ignore it and keep walking. Faster. She yells louder. ‘Tony!'

I sigh, stop, and turn around. Ash
hurries up to me. ‘Seeing as we don't have anything
on today, I thought we could have lunch together.
I even made you something.'

‘I'd love to, Ash, but I've
already eaten.' It's true. I usually finish my lunch
at recess, just so no one can steal it.

‘Well,
it's just that I really need to talk to
you about something.' She bites the corner of her bottom
lip.

It sounds serious. Maybe she's breaking up with me? I'd better find out.

We sit under a tree and she spoons some chickpea salad onto a plastic plate and hands it to me. It looks disgusting. I'll pretend to eat it and then when Ash isn't looking I'll chuck it to the crows.

‘So what do you wanna talk about?' I ask. My time as King is getting shorter as we speak.

‘I want to talk about us.'

‘I see.' I put on my serious voice. ‘Are you unhappy?' I hope she says yes.

‘Well … let me try to explain.' She looks up at the leaves before fixing her green eyes on mine. ‘Not kissing you has made some things clearer to me. About our relationship, I mean.'

I nod. Since we've given up pashing, things have been pretty clear to me as well.

She keeps going. ‘On one hand, I've really missed the physical part. And I think you have, too.'

‘You got that right.'

She raises her eyebrows. ‘But on the other hand, I've liked it. Without our raging hormones, we've been able to relax and enjoy each other's company more. I think it's made us closer.'