The OK Team 2 (2 page)

‘Mr Eggsmear said that?'

Troy looks shifty. ‘Actually I added the last bit. You've been crap.'

I don't even need to say anything because Troy gets out of there fast, skinny arms and legs flying in his lime-green runner's uniform, heading back to the boundary to receive the next round of messages for our players.

The worst thing is that Troy's right. I've barely touched the ball for the entire game and now it's down to the wire.

If you've never played Australian Rules football, it rocks. You can kick the ball up to fifty metres and you can leap onto other kids' backs to ‘mark' the ball. There are four scoring posts and if you kick the ball and it goes between the two tall posts in the middle, it scores a goal, worth six points. If you kick it between a large post and one of the smaller ones, it's only one point.

And Northcote is currently slightly less than one kick through the big sticks behind. We haven't got time to kick five points. Somebody has to kick a goal.

Play is clogged at the other end of the ground, then suddenly one of the Ivanhoe players boots the footy high in the air, deep into their forward line. Almost as it leaves the kid's boot, I see a short stocky player from our team rise into the air. He seems to hang there, above his opponent, suddenly remembering to put a foot on his rival's shoulder so he's not totally levitating. He hangs and hangs as the ball finally arrives and then marks it on his chest as other kids belatedly try to climb into the sky and punch or out-mark him.

Frederick Fodder might have just saved us the match. He lands neatly on both feet, which is remarkable given the high mark he has just taken, and sprints away from the stunned Ivanhoe players. One bounce, then two. Our forwards sniff a chance and we all start to run in different directions, trying to find some space, but still within reach of goal.

Frederick passes to Simon Fondue, who's wearing a long-sleeved jumper and running free on the wing. It's not a great kick and Simon has to chase it, finally picking up the ball and punting it long just as an opponent arrives to knock him off balance. The ball soars towards my half-forward flank.

I'm praying that the final siren doesn't sound before we can turn this into a match-winning goal. Kids come from everywhere, forwards and defenders, all converging on the spot where Simon's kick is going to land. I'm likely to get there first, with my giant opponent lumbering behind me, shaking the earth as he chases.

The ball lands before I can mark it, but I manage to trap it on the second bounce. I look left and right and there's a wall of kids – some in our team's jumpers, but most in Ivanhoe jumpers. There are about fifteen kids between me and the open goal. And I can hear my monster opponent's breath only a metre behind me, running at full steam. They all pile on top me, and I'm trapped, like a baby rabbit under a pack of large dogs.

But then I'm not. I'm outside the pile of kids and there's no one between me and the goal. I'm running and I take a bounce, to get that little bit closer and make sure of it. I can sense the confusion behind me, but I don't care. I concentrate hard as I drop the ball onto my boot and kick it straight over the head of the goal umpire, a Year Nine girl called Chelsea.

Chelsea sticks out both hands, index fingers pointing. It's a goal. Northcote leads by one point.

My teammates swamp me with head pats and hugs, whooping and congratulating me. I can feel my body fading and reappearing in all the attention, but then I pull myself together to become solid as I see one of the Ivanhoe defenders squinting suspiciously at me.

Simon has recovered enough that he's yapping away further up the ground, yelling instructions and urging our team on. He used to be so quiet, but not anymore. Now he's part of the leadership group and setting a great example.

‘Come on,' I yell to the Northcote boys. ‘It's not over yet. Win the centre bounce and let's get another goal to make sure of it.'

That's all we have to do, but the Ivanhoe ruckman jumps higher than ours, taps the ball to their best player, a kid called Magee, and he's away, charging towards their goals. We all hold our breath as he kicks it to a lanky kid with long blond hair who swoops on it, then kicks it over his shoulder.

The kick is terrible, swinging so wide that it might not even score a point, let alone go through the big sticks for a goal. We've won.

Or have we? As I watch, the footy stops in midair and starts to drift mysteriously back towards the goals. It's as though some kind of crazy breeze that we can't feel at ground level has got hold of the ball.

Everybody stops and watches. The ball floats, curls and drifts back onto a flight path that could score the winning goal.

I take my eyes off the ball for a second to look at the kid who kicked it. He's holding out one finger, pointing straight at the footy, as though guiding it with an invisible laser.

‘Hey!' I yell, but it's too late. The ball sails between the two goalposts and the goal umpire signals the goal.

Ivanhoe High is in front again.

It's desperately late in the last quarter, but maybe there's still time? Our ruckman gets the tap and the ball is booted long into our forward line. This time I don't even need to use my power. I find myself at the back of the pack as the ball beats everybody, and now there's only me and the open goal.

Yet just as I kick what should be the winning goal, an Ivanhoe kid appears right in front of me and smothers the ball off my boot. Where did he come from? It's like he materialised out of thin air. The ball rolls harmlessly away as the siren sounds across the schoolyard oval and Ivanhoe players everywhere erupt in celebration.

The lanky kid with blond hair is completely engulfed in players celebrating the win. I look for the kid who appeared out of thin air to smother my kick. I think I spot him, but then he's gone again.

As we trudge off, beaten, Frederick Fodder catches my eye. I know exactly what he's thinking.

CHAPTER 2
AFTER THE SIREN

A
lmost an hour later we're walking home from school and Frederick is furious.

‘We should have put in a protest,' he says. ‘I wanted to, but Hazy wouldn't let me,' says Simon. Even though it's quite hot for September, Simon is still wearing his long-sleeved football jumper.

‘What would we say?' I ask. ‘That we think the kid who kicked the winning goal might be a Superhero illegally using his Hero powers on a footy field? Also, that a kid appeared out of thin air, presumably also using some kind of power, to smother my kick. Oh yeah, and that the reason we know this is because we are also Superheroes?'

We walk silently for a while, thinking about this.

‘Even so,' Frederick steams, ‘it's not fair. It was cheating.'

‘And I suppose turning briefly invisible to pass through a pack of human bodies and kick a goal wasn't cheating? Or flying for as long as it took for the ball to reach you, Frederick?' The voice is coming out of thin air, just above our heads.

We look up and we can barely see the outline of a man's body, blending in to the colour of the cloudy sky.

‘Chameleon!' I say. ‘How long have you been watching us?'

‘Long enough to see you both use your powers in an everyday situation to the point where I should officially report the pair of you for a breach of the
Heroes Act
.'

I feel sheepish because Chameleon is right. But first, I should probably explain a few things here.

My name is Hazy Retina and I am actually a Superhero. Believe it or not. My Superhero name is Focus and I'm the leader of the OK Team, a group of teenage Heroes like me who have only been active as Heroes for about a year.

My power is that I can disappear. I was born out of focus, an old family condition that turned out to be a genuine Super Power. I can become completely invisible, or be more or less in focus, unless you look carefully. It has a lot to do with whether I'm scared or nervous or happy or sad. For example, if I'm terrified, I more or less become a cloud. But when I'm confident, as I am most of the time now that I know I'm a Hero and I've actually managed to pull off a few Hero stunts, I look mostly normal, if a little smudged or blurry around my facial features or along my arms and legs. I used to be the class freak, but that was before I earned my cape. Nobody at school knows about the whole Hero thing except for Frederick and Simon, but, because of it, I carry myself differently these days.

There aren't many 14-year-old Heroes around but I'm officially recognised by the Australian Federation of Hero Types (the AFHT) as a Hero, Level D, Grade Three, which isn't exactly a Triple A save-the-world-before-lunch Hero, but it is on the way. At least I'm not a trainee Hero anymore, as I was last year when one of the world's greatest original Heroes, Mr Fabulous, came to Australia to train the OK Team.

Frederick is in the team. His Superhero name is Cannonball and he can fly. Really. In the beginning, he had no control over where he flew, and would fly in the opposite direction to where he was aiming, or slam into obstacles, but he's getting better and often even ends up where he's trying to fly. Not always, but he's definitely wearing fewer Bandaids than he used to. Cannonball is incredibly strong too. Super strong. His ego and temper can be Superpowered as well, but don't tell him I said that.

Simon Fondue is Torch. Even if you don't know much about Superheroes, you'll probably know what a Torch is – a Hero whose body can flame-up to become a fire-person. Our Torch comes from a famous family of Torches, and he was miserable because he could only make his index fingers catch fire, like candles. With the help of Mr Fabulous, Simon can now shoot streams of flame at specific targets. It's cool when it works. Cannonball can't call him ‘The Human Candle' anymore – at least not unless he wants to risk his cape catching fire. Simon has changed a lot since he first joined the OK Team. He used to be incredibly shy and quiet. Now he's embraced his Hero self to the point that we can hardly shut him up.

Our other original member is Switchy whose power is that (ideally) he can turn into pretty much anything he chooses. Because we're all still lower-level Heroes, he doesn't always get it right. But if we need a helicopter, eight times out of ten he can become one. Maybe seven out of ten. It's an incredibly handy power, especially when fighting bad guys. Who needs a utility belt when Switchy can become anything we might need at a moment's notice?

We used to have a couple of other team members. Yesterday, The Girl Who Could See Into the Past is actually Frederick's little sister and only joined us because he was supposed to look after her while their mum worked shifts in her job. Then Mr Fabulous trained Yesterday so she managed to see into the future once or twice. She promptly changed her name to Tomorrow Girl and ditched us for a new Hero team being assembled by some girls her own age. I mean, can you believe it? Five 12-year-old girls posing as a Super Team. And I mean posing. We hardly ever run into them, thank goodness.

I don't like to talk about the other ex-OK Team member. Ali Fraudulent's Super name is Liarbird. Her power is a Super-ability to lie. When we met she was incapable of telling the truth (‘Are you a girl, Liarbird?' ‘No.' ‘Are we humans?' ‘No.') so Mr Fabulous guided her until she could be honest or use her power when she chose and for good. Mostly.

Liarbird was also my girlfriend – the first, in fact the
only
girlfriend I've ever had. For a few months after the OK Team's first big adventure, my life was great. I was developing confidence as a Hero and secretly holding Liarbird's hand whenever I could.

But she's gone.

I couldn't believe it when she broke the news.

‘My father is taking a senior position at a bank in Nigeria. His salary will be 47 million-million dollars,' she said. ‘We got an email about it this morning. We leave tomorrow.'

‘Is this the truth or are you using your power?' I asked.

‘Hazy! You can ask my mum.' She looked hurt. ‘Listen, it's not you, it's me. You're great, but we need time apart, so I can find myself. We're not breaking up, just having some time off. We need some space and Nigeria will give us that.'

I veered wildly out of focus; all the control I'd been learning went out the window. I was visible, then fuzzy, clear then a mist. Tears clouded my eyes, and then the whole world was blurry.

‘When will you be back?'

She thought about it for a moment. ‘In about a week. Bye.'

And she was gone. That was eight months ago. Out of my life as suddenly as she'd arrived.

We've replaced Liarbird in the OK Team, but it's not the same.

So anyway, Chameleon warns us that we are dangerously close to being punished for using our powers in an everyday setting, in front of normal people.

‘I won't report you this time, boys, but don't let it happen again,' he says.

I am fuzzy with relief.

‘We SHOULD be able to use our powers, though,' says Fredrick (a.k.a. Cannonball). ‘It's not our fault these non-powered losers can't fly. If Focus can fade straight through a pack of players, good on him.'

‘So it's also okay that the Ivanhoe kid guided the ball through the goal when it should have missed by metres?' Simon (Torch) says.

‘That's different. That was cheating!'

I shake my head at my stocky little friend who is trudging along kicking at weeds that are sprouting up through the cracks in the path.

‘All I'm saying,' Frederick continues, ‘is that I'd love to be able to run onto the field and really let myself go. Let my powers take over. But I have to apply the handbrake to my potential all the time. It's so frustrating!'

Chameleon is still floating above us, blending in to the blue sky with white slowly moving clouds. He laughs. ‘You need to investigate Hero Ball, Frederick.'