The Invisible Hero (2 page)

Later backstage, when I called Phil a ‘retard', Mr Quayle ignored it (which means he agrees). I heard Canmore criticising Quayle for not telling me off for what I'd said. Quayle stood over her – with all his one hundred kilos of white-hot anger – and these are his exact words, ‘What's MacKinnon supposed to say when someone like Dugan stuffs up? Count to ten and call him Special Needs?'

Once I'm out of school I won't have to put up with the dills of this world.

Mista Kwale wonts me to hury up and chuse a hero or vilan but I don't wont a vilan life is to short to wast on them and I don't want to chuse from Mista Kwale's list of heros. Shore, they hav done grate things like invent medcin, save lives and stuff, but Im thinkng abowt the hero that's not on his list whos done differnt things and I think Ive an idear. Sumone who makes me wont to be beta sumone who maks you wont to reech for the stars.

Wer sposd to say wat a vilan is. A vilan is not just Hitla who kilt milons of people. A vilan can be quiat lik a cold wind creeping under the door. It can be a man or women. It is wen you hav hate in yor hart and you derstroy someone evn a litl bit on purpus.

My Nanna ses that she only taks offens if offens is ment. But wot if sumone meens offens? I aslo think that we al hav a bit of vilan in us and we hav to fite this evry day of our lifes. Lik the uther day wen Macca calld me a Reatard and I pertended not to here but I wonted somthink bad to hapn to Macca but then I meremberd Nanna sed that wen you hate you becum the looser, so I tryd to think of sumthink nice about Macca and I did that. I thort he was good to do the play for Wrold Vison and that we had helpt to mak mony for pore kids.

And Ive just thort of sumthing els. What if you hate youself? I meen the bullee inside you tries to bullee the other bit of you thats trying to do sumthing? Maybe you say to youself when you get sumthing wrong, ‘You idot. Why cant you eva get it rite?' Well I rekon theres a villan inside you sumwhere and maybe you shold stand up to him. Maybe even kik him out. But I wunder how you do that?

This is such a bore. How am I ever going to fill in this page?

The new girl Raphaela (disguised as little goody two-shoes but underneath she's out to steal your man from under your nose). She talks to all the boys. I hate her guts. She's like all sweet
and can I help you?
Suck, suck, suck. Big eyes. Snobby voice. My mate Amber said Raph walks like a dancer and I asked
how's that?
and Amber said ‘sort of straight back and head up high' and I said
she's just up herself
and my other bestie, Tiffany, said so
far up herself, she's got lost and can't get out
and we all laughed our heads off. And that weirdo Imogen asked
what are you laughing about?
and that made us laugh even more and we walked off.

How on earth can I think of getting schoolwork done? My head is so full of trying to survive this school. Mum and Dad say it takes time to settle into a new school, especially as I've come from a small school where everyone knows everyone. But Taunton High is huge. It's a city of faces.

In my Year 9 class there's an in-group who rule the place: Jake MacKinnon, Sam de Grekh, Charlie Cheung, Genelle Harris and two groupies – Tiffany and Amber (don't know their last names yet). Jake and Genelle are the real power, but that Sam de Grekh spooks me, too.

As far as I can see, everyone's a bit scared of this group. They keep their heads down and stay out of danger. Yikes. I can't believe I just wrote ‘danger'. Sounds dramatic, but I'm not exaggerating. There's a kind of undercurrent of fear in this place.

I'm trying to be positive. I really am. But not that many people have been friendly to me. There's that loner, Phil Dugan. Then
there's another group of kids who sometimes eat lunch together – Imogen, Ruth, Mustafa and Oliver. I don't know their last names yet. They invited me to eat lunch with them today, but I couldn't find them. I got lost in the school grounds among that sea of people, so I ate my lunch in a toilet cubicle so that no one would see me eating alone. Gross.

Spent the rest of lunchtime in the library. At least there, I could pretend to be doing serious research for this heroes and villains assignment. After she left, my English teacher, Mrs Canmore, came in to chat with Mrs Wilgard, the librarian. She saw me wandering round the stacks and walked over to me. ‘Work or pleasure?' she asked.

‘This research thingy you've given us,' I said. ‘But I like history.'

‘Me, too,' said Mrs Canmore smiling. ‘History and English are soulmates.'

I gave her a ‘what on earth?' look and she laughed. ‘Have a meeting I have to get to. Think about why they might be soulmates. We'll chat another time.'

I pulled a few books off the shelves and had a flick through them. I'd never thought about it before, but history books have lots of male heroes, and hardly any women.

I just instantly knew what I'd want to write about for this. I want to write about an adventurer, an explorer. It's in my blood. My
grandfather was an adventurer. He travelled to places like Alaska and lived with Eskimos. He climbed mountains in New Zealand and the Himalayas. His stories have been handed down.

In our living room, we have a couple of things Grandad brought back. On the mantel piece there's a tiny, dark horn (less than the width of your thumb and about the same length) that comes from an antelope called a Chamois. It's from New Zealand. And we have a handwoven rug Grandad brought back from his adventures in the Himalayas. Somewhere in one of the cupboards, we even have an Eskimo jumper Grandad wore, although my brother chucked it in the washing machine and it shrank, so no one can wear it anymore.

Like I said, it's in the blood. My dad works long hours as manager of an outdoor adventure shop. He's a good husband and father and spends lots of time with us. He doesn't have much time for himself, but he has Grandad's love of physical challenges and seeing new places. About four times a year when he gets, as Mum puts it, ‘stir crazy', he packs a little backpack with his lightweight camping gear and Mum drives him hours away into the bush and leaves him where he asks to be left. Then he walks back home over two or three days.

If Dad doesn't have the time for that and he's really yearning for the great outdoors, then he puts up a little tent down in the back garden and sleeps out for a couple of nights. He always comes back happy and ready for all the responsibilities of life.

I'd like to write about Dad because he's our family's hero. But I can just imagine what Raph and Co would make of that. And
Mr Quayle for that matter. So the question is, which adventurer do I choose? I mean, the reason I'd choose Dad is not just that he's brave, but he's also unselfish.

It seems a lot of heroes do amazing things, but why do they do them? Is it to prove something to themselves? How often is it done for someone else's sake? Like, all the climbing that happens at Mt Everest. People lose their fingers and toes to frostbite and then they do it all over again. What about their families back home? Do these climbers consider the stress they must put their families through?

And people die. I saw a really horrible doco about some poor English guy called David Sharp who died up on Mt Everest. In 2006, eleven people in six weeks died trying to climb Mt Everest. But David Sharp's death was actually murder. I call it that, anyway.

On that day in May, 2006, they reckon as many as forty other climbers saw Sharp close to death. Some did stop to give him oxygen, but every one of the forty continued on to the top of the mountain. Their ambitions were more important than a human life. I don't see a constant stream of humans clawing their way up and down a mountain as heroes.

And what about the poor old Sherpas – those Himalayans who carry such a lot of gear up the mountains for other much wealthier Westerners who want to climb mountains? The Sherpas don't even have the same quality of clothing and footwear that western climbers have. Sure, these mountaineers are physically
brave and obviously emotionally tough. But is that true hero stuff?

I'd really like to find an adventurer who is also a good guy.

I've been trying to think about who I can write about without research and stuff taking up too much of my time. You have to have your priorities right. There's my school group, Genelle, Amber and all that. And then I have my Facebook friends to talk to, and Twitter. I have parties on the weekend. I have a life.

Off the top of my head I'm trying to think of heroes. How about Captain Cook? He should do. He discovered Australia. At least, I think he did. In 17-something-or-other. In primary we learnt about how he kept his sailors healthy. Something to do with sucking lemons. Or something like a lemon. Can't think of the name. Can't be bothered. Don't know why Captain Cook would be a hero just because he was hooked on sailing ships.

Okay. Florence Nightingale. She also saved lives. In some war. She knew about washing your hands to keep germs away. That was important. No one knew about dirt and germs back then. But I'm thinking that's not quite true. My Oma who's Dutch says the Dutch knew about cleanliness way before the rest of Europe and England and that's why the Black Plague was never as bad in Holland as in other countries. But I'm not turned on by talking about being clean and healthy and what's it to do with heroes anyway?

Maybe I should write about some modern hero. No. That means work. I'll go with Florence. I'll cut and paste and make it look like I've done a few weeks' work. Done.

I could write about Genelle. She'd get a laugh out of that. Then again she might take me seriously. She does big-note herself a bit. I mean, sure, she's won herself Macca. That makes her a kind of hero amongst some of us girls. But even I think a hero has to do something special and good. That's not Genelle. I like her and all that. She's sort of my bestie. But I wouldn't want to trust her with my life. She's one thing to your face, but you can't be sure what she might be saying about you to someone else. I go along with her when she bags people like that new girl, Raphaela. But actually, I don't think the new girl is all that bad.

Yeah. Got off the track. Filled a page though. Or almost a page.

All I can think of is heroes we learnt about in primary. Boring. Have changed my mind. I actually would like a modern hero. And maybe a young one. Not all those old ones. But I need to find a hero quickly. I really haven't got the time to research.

If I didn't have my family to go home to, I'd just crack. When I'm at school, it's like I'm covered in signs saying, ‘New Girl'. At lunchtime today, I tried to casually walk through that sea of kids as if I had somewhere I was heading. The playground is as overcrowded and nasty as a prison exercise yard. There was a fight going on between two boys; they had a creepy circle of kids watching, cheering, filming it all on their mobiles. As I kept walking, I could hardly lift up my head. I felt like I had a weight pressing down on the back of my neck. I was just terrified to look up. Then wham. A ball whacked into the side of my head. I turned to see who had thrown it. Genelle was standing with Macca and the gang. ‘Oh, sorry. I missed,' she said, grinning.

Back I went to the library.

This afternoon I got home and headed straight for the kitchen where Mum was performing her usual multi-tasking magic. Her laptop was perched on the bench and she was sending emails to her various maths tutoring students; at the same time she had the phone piece wedged between her shoulder and ear while she chatted to one of her friends and, in between emailing, she was chopping vegetables for a soup. As soon as she saw me, she rang off and gave me a big hug, then handed me my traditional after school lemonade – made with lemons from our tree and a teaspoon of honey.

‘What time will Dad be home tonight?' I asked, quickly draining the bittersweet drink.

‘It's office meeting night, remember? No earlier than seven,' said Mum. ‘How was school?'

‘Not bad,' I said. ‘At lunchtime I shared your baklava with Oliver Johnston and some other kids and they've begged me to bring more tomorrow.'

Mum laughed. ‘There should be a Nobel Peace Prize for cooks.'

‘Why on earth?'

‘Good food makes good friends,' she said.

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘I wonder why.'

‘Pretty basic, really. If you put great effort into cooking a meal or a cake and then feed a person with the same care and attention, then you are providing them with two of the most basic human needs – food and love. Hey presto – friendship.'

‘True. With some exceptions. We've got some boys in our class, Macca, Sam and Charlie, who'd just eat your food and still knife you in the back.'

‘Exceptions,' said Mum. ‘Just exceptions. Here, take this plate of baklava to Dede.'

‘Where is he?'

When I get back from school, my grandfather is usually on the front verandah. He looks as though he has dressed for the office, except maybe an office back in the 1930s like you see in black and white movies. He wears a white shirt, a tie, and he has a dark pin-striped pair of trousers with matching waistcoat. He smokes a pipe, drinks a small cup of thick, black Mocha coffee,
reads the newspaper (while at the same time thumbing through his prayer beads) and passes the time of day with any neighbours who might be walking to the corner shop.

If I was a neighbour and wanted to buy milk at the corner shop, I'd take a detour to avoid our place and walk the other way round the block. When Dede says good-day, it involves answering questions about your family going back to Adam and Eve. ‘How's your daughter, Melisa?' ‘And Melisa's baby who has colic?' ‘And your uncle with the ingrown toenail? His great-grandfather was my father's next door neighbour in Istanbul. A very fine family, marsallah. And your father-in-law's tomatoes? Has he tried chicken shit as a fertiliser?'

‘Dede is on the back patio,' Mum smiled, twisting her head slightly in that direction. ‘Men's club day.'

‘Ah, the axis of all that is nosey,' I said.

‘I see it as a philosopher's circle,' said Mum. ‘Go on. Out you go. Dede likes to show you off.'

In the shade of the grapevine trellis, my grandfather and his two ancient friends were sitting on straight-backed wooden chairs. They were like white-haired, brown-faced triplets – all in dark trousers and vests, circles of smoke curling up in the air from their pipes, their little tea glasses resting on a small, rickety table in front of them. My six-year-old kid sister, Alara, was in one of her dress-ups, a long pink dress with lots of ruffles. She was doing a dance for them, whirling and dramatically throwing her arms out. I knew that in her imagination she was a contestant in Dancing with the Stars. The men were clapping and trying not to laugh.

With Alara now clinging to one of my legs, I laid the plate of baklava on the table and, in the tradition Dede loves, kissed his hand and held it to my forehead. His friends murmured their approval. Then I shook hands with Uncle Esat and Uncle Osman. They are not related, but I call them both Amca (Uncle) out of respect. They then greeted me by laying their cheeks against mine. Grandpa beamed. He likes it that I have good manners.

‘So Mustafa, what did you learn at school today?' asked Uncle Osman.

It was a trick question. I have to go through a set list of questions every time I meet the men's club. They believe I learn nothing much at school, that kids don't get enough homework or show enough respect for teachers.

One of Grandpa's favourite proverbs is
Hocanin vurdugu yerde gül biter.
This means, ‘A rose will sprout from the place where a teacher has hit.' In other words, there's no learning without discipline. I agree with that up to a point. And I go along with the interrogations of the men's club because it gives them a chance to talk about what is precious to them. Uncle Osman's question about what I'd learned today was one I was always being asked.

‘Not a lot,' I said cheerfully. ‘No roses growing out of me, insallah!'

The old men laughed.

‘Maths?' asked Uncle Esat.

‘Some Maths, a bit of Science, History and English.'

‘Mathematics,' said Uncle Esat with a meaningful pause. ‘Now do you know about Al-Khwarizmi?'

‘You told me a little last time we met,' I said. I couldn't spoil it for him by saying, ‘Yes, sir. Every single time we meet, you tell me about Al-Khwarizmi, circa 820, the father of modern algebra and the man who introduced Arabic numerals to the West.' Then again, there would be no point in trying to cut him short in this way. Uncle Esat could and would come up with any number of famous Muslim mathematicians and scientists whose ideas have helped shape modern thinking. So I sat down on a spare chair next to the old men, put on an expression of intense interest, and listened for the millionth time to the story of Al-Khwarizmi. But when I saw the pride in Dede's eyes as he watched me, his grandson, learning from the old generation, I kind of enjoyed it, too.

‘Actually, Uncle Esat, you might like this famous saying.
Maths is the language God used to create the universe.
'

‘Allah, so beautiful!' cried Uncle Esat.

All three old men nodded. ‘Who said that? And where did you learn that?' asked Uncle Osman.

‘An Italian scientist and mathematician called Galileo from the 1500s. Our Science teacher was telling us about him.'

‘A good teacher,' said Dede.

‘And today did you study any great Literature in English?' asked Uncle Osman.

Here was a minefield. The men's club believe in teaching the basics – good spelling, grammar, handwriting, essay writing and so on. And they have great respect for what Mrs Canmore would call ‘the classics' in poetry and novels. But Dede and his friends shake their heads when they hear about the sorts of books and
films school kids sometimes read and see. They worry that if we read about rebellion, drug use, crime and that sort of thing that we'll head that way.

‘We read a poem called
The Road Not Taken.
It's about daring to find yourself by choosing a different path in life from everyone else.'

‘What exactly are the words?' asked Uncle Osman.

I went inside, pulled my English folder out of my backpack and rejoined the men's club.

I read the poem aloud:

The old men nodded their heads. ‘The poet's name?' asked Uncle Osman.

‘Robert Frost. He was American.'

Then Dede said, ‘There is truth there. But it is wise to begin a journey with an idea of what you are looking for.'

‘You have heard Rumi's great poem about Allah?' Uncle Esat asked me.

What choice did I have? ‘Yes, Sir, but please tell it to me again,' I said.

‘I just recall these last words. Rumi wrote about his search for Allah, and at the end of his poem he decides:

‘Very beautiful, eh Mustafa? Eight hundred years old and still true,' said Uncle Esat.

All three old men drained their coffee cups and looked thoughtful. Dede had tears in his blue eyes. The restless thoughts
in me about sneaking down to the local park to kick a soccer ball around with some mates or getting onto Facebook for a while moved away. These old men who, as young men, had emigrated from Turkey in the 1960s needed me to listen. They needed me to understand how lonely it can be to live in a country far away from home, a country that might offer great opportunities, but where men do not cry over poetry.

‘So why did your teacher choose that ‘Road' poem today?' asked Dede.

‘We are going to research a hero or villain. It will be for History as well as English. Then we will share what we find with the other kids. Maybe that poem shows how these heroes and villains have made choices, too.'

Uncle Osman slammed his hands down on his bony, old man knees. ‘Good. We will help you find a hero.'

‘Me! Choose me!' cried Alara.

Mum saved the day by calling out to me to refill the little tea glasses. By the time I'd done that, the men's club was having a noisy discussion about my namesake – Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. As the greatest leader of the Turkish people, which reforms of his had been wise and which unwise?

I didn't mean to write so much about Dede and his men's club and so little about this project thing for school. Maybe deep down I really do want to choose a hero who Dede would approve of.

The smart kids in this class are just getting on with this project, not fussing too much about who they choose. My mate Macca's on his way with some guy from centuries back. I think villains are a lot more interesting than goody-goodies. At least you get written about and not forgotten.

I've had a bit of a look round the internet for famous villains and I've found this team of two called Burke and Hare. Not the explorers, Burke and Wills. Don't get it wrong. No, these blokes murdered about sixteen people between them. Money was the reason for the murders, but not how you'd think. The victims were all poor.

That's enough for now. Facebook calls.

Most of my group, including Genelle, are going for real weirdos in this project thingy. Even Amber. She's doing some evil guy from the Inquisition. Macca has some Italian villain guy with a name that sounds like Macca's. Genelle has narrowed her list down to Britney Spears, Paris Hilton and John Lennon. She's having trouble deciding. I'd never say it to Genelle's face, but I think her list is pathetic. Charlie Cheung's doing someone different, though.

Yesterday, I asked Charlie who he'd chosen. At first Charlie got that cold, blank look he does when he won't let anyone near him. But when I told him I wanted a young, modern hero, he
opened up. Charlie's doing some Scottish guy who discovered penicillin. It sounded boring and not very modern – and I said so. But he's actually really into this guy. Turns out penicillin has only been in use since the second world war, so it's pretty recent. Before that heaps of people died from simple things we just get over in a few days on antibiotics.

The good news for me is, today I found a hero. I'm not going to tell anyone but Charlie because the group probably won't think it's cool to go for a real hero.

My hero is Lachlan Edwards. His photo is in the paper. He's an Aussie guy, our age and he looks cute.

Someone's SMSed me. Will get back to this.

Well Machiavelli (Macca the 1st) turns out to be quite a dude. He was an Italian, born back in the Renaissance. He wrote his ideas about power in a book called
The Prince
and it made a bit of a stir and got banned in places like England. No wonder. He says the things I think but don't say, like, ‘It is best to be both feared and loved; however, if one cannot be both it is better to be feared than loved.' How do you think I stay on top round here? And Macca 1st comes down hard on being a goody-goody, ‘...for a man who strives after goodness in all his acts is sure to come to ruin, since there are so many men who are not good.' Right on! Think about Gandhi and Jesus Christ – both suckers who get it in the neck from people who are tougher. And what about this advice? ‘...a
prince may be perceived to be merciful, faithful, humane, frank and religious, but he should only seem to have these qualities.' I mean, that's how life works. The leader stays in power; the people under him thinks he's a hero. Everyone's happy.