You Belong Here Page 7

  They met at the centre of the pitch and hit bats. Walker held his bat upwards, showed it to the sky, and Alex, bat in his right hand, tapped it twice on his left triceps. It wasn’t flags or fireworks, but it mattered to them. Walker strode back to the striker’s, took his guard as though nothing had happened.

  Still, Alex worried that Walker would get out: leaving a ball he should have hit, hitting a ball he should have left. But he didn’t stray, not once. And even as the seniors had started to assemble—the car park filling up with faded grey Commodores, Cortinas the colour of blood clots, and the odd rusted Hilux—Alex and Walker were still there, still in, still batting as though born to do it.

  The over before stumps, Walker strolled down the pitch, the occasional prod at a bump or rough patch.

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘We have a plan?’ said Alex. They surveyed the oval: one of the outer fieldsman for Maylands sat waiting on the grass, while another was talking to a girl on the boundary.

  ‘This is epic,’ said Alex.

  ‘Not that we’re going to beat them,’ said Walker.

  ‘But they’re not going to win. They always win.’

  Walker laughed. ‘You’re such a weirdo.’

  ‘Let’s do this,’ said Alex, and again they bumped gloves.

  They brought Jason back to bowl the final over, his zinc cream faded, a watercolour wash that stained his cheeks and spread to his jawline. The first ball, short. So short, in fact, that it flew over Alex’s head, but he made a show of leaving it regardless.

  Second and third balls, outswingers, hoping for the nick, but by then Alex had settled in to his leaving dance, bat held high, and bum thrusted back. He stared down Jason, daring him to try a different tack.

  ‘Pansy,’ called Jason, once the ball had gone through to the keeper.

  ‘Still in, but,’ replied Alex.

  They brought the field in for the next ball, and the guys in close were going for the jugular:

  You can’t bat.

  You’re so gay.

  I saw your mum in the nuddy.

  Fourth, fifth balls, padded to silly mid on, Todd Jenkins, an egg of a boy. Bright blond hair, roughly cut, wearing stubby shorts when everyone else was in full-length whites.

  ‘I’ll give you fifty bucks if you get out,’ said Todd.

  ‘What do you want me to do, go buy you some pants?’ said Alex.

  Walker came down before the final ball. ‘Reckon you can hit a six?’

  ‘Nup,’ said Alex.

  ‘A four?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Alex.

  ‘That would get us a tie. Six, we’ve got the win.’

  ‘You think we can run four off a block? I say we do it, straight bat Sally down the on side, what do you think?’

  ‘I think I’m sensing a total wuss-out,’ said Walker. ‘So how about this: I dare you. No blocks or bunts, just smash it, hard as you can.’

  ‘Oh, well if it’s a dare, you goose, then get ready,’ said Alex.

  A final knock of the gloves, and then another. Jenkins had had enough, stared them down and mimed a wank.

  ‘Get a room!’ he called.

  ‘Get some pants,’ said Alex.

  The batsmen parted, Walker ambled back to the bowler’s crease. The umpire waited, arm held up to block the bowler’s path. Lowered his hand, and then raised it when a crow flew across the wicket. Jason paced on the spot, testing strength in his toes, until, finally, the umpire gave the all clear.

  As Jason ran in, Walker made a point of shielding his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to look. Alex readied himself. He knew the drill. If anything, he was seeing the ball better than when he’d first come in. Jason would go for the stumps. He wasn’t going to reinvent the wheel this late in the game.

  And so, for the first time all day, Alex stepped down the pitch, super swift, and caught the ball half-volley, before the swing had kicked in. It looked majestic, at first, but his shot was misjudged.

  He heard a nick, the cries of ‘catch it!’ then looked back and started running. Traced the ball in flight, waiting for a fieldsman, but it flew well over the slips, past short third man and on to the boundary.

  Walker pumped his fist, Alex swung his bat, and the two embraced, bowler’s end.

  ‘We did it,’ cried Walker. ‘We tied!’

  ‘Champions!’ roared Alex. ‘Next time, we’ll get ’em for real, pull out the win.’

  ‘Better believe it,’ said Walker. ‘Still, we did it, man!’ They high-fived, side-fived, laughed and danced, an odd, ecstatic jig.

  Alex turned to his family. Raised his bat as though he’d scored a hundred, and they stood there, smiling back. Jay had stuffed his Gameboy into his shorts pocket, clapped with gusto, ‘wooed’ up a storm. Jen mouthed, Well done, and Emily tipped her hand, a slight salute to her showboat brother.

  They met him at the boundary, hugs all around. He didn’t say much, and then, still padded up, the boys kept walking, and soon enough the whole team had crowded around, and it was as if they’d won the World Cup.

  The family got pizza for lunch that day, deep-pan and all, and Alex got to have the first piece, though in the end, he let Jay go first, and even Emily after that, knowing that, when the time was right, he’d have his piece, remember the day and smile, thinking, Not too bad.

  The Knife

  By the time they reached Beaufort Street they were flying along, feet to the pedals. Alex yelled, ‘Keep up, dickhead!’ and Walker yelled, ‘Alex, you clown!’ Alex smiled; he knew he would beat him, how things went, whatever they played, it was just another thrashing for the one and only Walker.

  They reached the intersection, bunny hopped between traffic and onto the other side. Alex’s uniform, a navy blue polo and knee-length basketball shorts, was soaked through with sweat. Walker was in his salmon-pink shirt and stubbies, embarrassing Alex to the point that he deliberately created distance, and Christ, it was hard to be a mate to a guy rocking private school ponce.

  Perth had bigger problems: yuppies moving in, swallowing souls with their renovations and extensions. Brick and cinder blocks on front verges, Bunnings hardware, suburban style.

  He asked Walker if he got it. If they had a shot at changing things as long as they stuck together. Whether, having mastered Ryu’s hadouken, they could teach younger, less-privileged kids to beat better, slightly older kids at Street Fighter II. Walker went quiet, hair falling in front of his face, said, ‘I doubt it, we’re headed back to Adelaide.’ They needed to be closer to his gran, he said. She was coming to the end of her innings.

  And that’s typical, thought Alex, typical Walker, pissing off when I need him. But he understood, it was Walker’s gran, and Alex loved his gran too. Christ, she’d given him his own drawer in her freezer, and was super sweet, even when she’d made roomy cream cricket vests with a mint and custard trim, when he’d been hoping for the real deal from the Australian Cricket Board. But that’s what grans do: they sit at tables, talk a bit of shit, maybe throw you a life lesson as they’re cutting up the Swiss roll. And they’re awesome, great, but they die, and so does everyone; it’s just that some will die much sooner than you had planned them to.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Walker, pushing back his fringe.

  Kickstand fold, and they were flying down Fourth. Over crests, dipping in and out of shadows.

  Alex pushed the pedals to pick up speed. Sometimes, pushed so hard that he could feel the pedal edges, raised steel teeth. Sometimes, got a knife, pushed the point into his arm. It left a mark, but no-one ever seemed to notice.

  Walker skidded, stopped. Alex had to swerve to get past him and then braked, turned so they were facing each other. Walker pushed his front wheel into Alex, but he bounced him off with a twist of his handlebars. They rode down to Central Avenue, dodged a bus, its rear end swinging into traffic. Mounted the island. Alex waited, judged the speed of coming cars. Nearly messed up big and got clipped by a side mirror, but made it safely across the northbound
lanes. Bunny hopped onto the footpath, L-turn at Central Video, and on past the TAB.

  ‘You’ll be the death of me,’ said Jen. She edged the blade as she opened the vacuum pack, ham steaks sliding onto the chopping board. Their counter was pocked with misjudged slices and dices, most of them from his mother, who swore as the knife bounced out of her hand and clattered to the floor.

  ‘Are you listening? The death of me.’

  ‘Bit harsh,’ said Alex, scoffing peanuts from the bag.

  ‘Your teacher said you called her a bitch.’

  ‘I called her a witch.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The broomstick?’

  ‘I’m serious. What’s going on with you?’

  ‘Product of a broken home,’ said Alex. ‘A goddamned mess, the whole thing. Don’t even know how I get out of bed most mornings.’

  ‘You are the product of a caring, loving home,’ she said, and it sounded like she meant it. Like she hadn’t been there from the bounce, and seen things go bung.

  ‘When’s Dad coming home?’

  ‘He’s not. Can we not do this? You’re fifteen years old, nearly an adult, so start acting like it.’

  ‘Maybe he’s running late.’ Alex pulled back the curtains, looked down the driveway.

  ‘He’s not running late,’ she said, as she pulled the steaks apart.

  ‘Is Dad mad? At you?’

  She sighed. ‘Al——’

  ‘God,’ he said. ‘Mrs Melodrama. I was kidding.’

  She asked him to peel the spuds. He asked why Emily couldn’t do it.

  ‘She’s at McKenzies Chemist, work experience, and you know that, too.’

  He knew, but didn’t like it much, how his sister was talking of quitting school. He pushed her on taking the TEE and she had said, What’s the point, and he couldn’t tell if she had been talking about school or life in general.

  His life, not dead, just wounded, thinking, This has gone to shit.

  In his dream, they’re in the country. Walker comes over and they kick the footy out back, the trees positioned to create a makeshift set of goals that stretches to the sky.

  He grows apples and passionfruit. Up early, finish by three, and it’s hard work but his father’s there; he helps out when his son is under the pump or can’t do the books.

  In his dream, his dad comes over, Sunday afternoon, just before the bounce. They watch the match and the Eagles win game after game as Dad drinks his beer, and Alex his Coke, in the big pint glass with three, four ice cubes.

  He says, ‘I love you, Dad,’ whenever Sumich kicks a goal, but his dad can’t hear over the roar of the television.

  ‘When’s Emily getting home?’ said Alex.

  ‘You miss your sister?’ said Mum.

  ‘I’ll have her ice-cream if she’s not coming back.’

  ‘She’ll be back later. Finish the spuds.’

  He waited, leaned against the counter. ‘I like this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jay’s at camp, Emily’s at work. It’s like you’re really here.’

  ‘I’m always here,’ said Jen. She stared at him as if he was a broken ring-pull on a can of Coke, and he got back to the peeling.

  Alex watched his mum dribble oil on the steaks before shifting them to a baking tray. Once they had turned brown as old leather from the old fan-force, she pulled out the pineapple, drained the slices and put them on top. She dished the yellow mash—half cheese, half potato—onto the plates.

  They used to have family dinners around the table, wood-stained caramel, with Alex’s knees against the underside. The TV had to be off. They weren’t allowed to eat dinner on the couch, which wasn’t really a couch, just a bed with a cover that his mum had made from some old beige fabric.

  The idea was that you got to eat with your family. Mum, Dad, and kids . . . only Dad had left for the second and last time when he was ten.

  Emily walked into the dining room in a white ‘no hassles’ T-shirt, way too big, the letters pink and green.

  ‘Princess.’

  ‘Good one, genius stuff,’ she said.

  ‘What does that even mean? That your brain has no hassles? No thoughts to get in the way of all those prescriptions, hey?’

  ‘Kids,’ said Mum, plonking down a plate dead-centre, a golden, glistening tower of spud, with two, three knobs of butter running rivers down the sides.

  Alex loaded up a glob of mash on his fork, pretended to throw it, making Emily flinch.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Emily.

  ‘Oh, I dare,’ said Alex.

  ‘You used to be best friends,’ said Mum. ‘When she was a baby, we couldn’t tear you away from her.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Alex. He flicked the potato, fork twanging in his hand, the mash landing behind Emily’s fringe. It moved forwards when she went to get it out, and then dropped to the floor with a satisfying plop.

  ‘God!’ Emily kicked him, took her plate and left the room. Alex smiled at his mum, but she seemed angry, or sad, or something.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ he said.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Nothing.’ It was safer to stay silent.

  They sat at the table, his mum staring, him eating, and then he went to his room. He put on Faith No More really loud, ‘Land of Sunshine,’ repeat riff on the lead guitar, Patton’s vocals, calm, clear, at least to start. But you knew he’d go apeshit, aching, itching for the chorus, voice going deeper, coarser, into maniac cackling, mind-melt carnival loop on the keyboard, drums kicking in like a heart attack.

  Hearing Angel Dust that first time, and hating it because it wasn’t The Real Thing. Still did hate it in parts, but he had started to appreciate the gut-punch riff, that angry thrust that kicked in now and then. Not like The Real Thing. That was lighter, almost poppy by comparison. Some liked that, but for Alex, it was nice to see someone be honest, clever, and ‘Land of Sunshine’ was nothing if not fuck-you funny and satirical as shit.

  The rest of the album a bit inconsistent, could lose ‘RV,’ its woe-is-me, wink-wink redneck shtick, deep-six ‘Everything’s Ruined,’ ‘Smaller and Smaller,’ and ‘Malpractice,’ but on some tracks they got it: ‘Caffeine’ screams, ‘Be Aggressive’ coming straight from the stadium, ring-ropes cut, turnbuckle pulled clean off, and ramming the head, over and over.

  *

  Alex said he saw adults smoking and drinking, so why couldn’t he? Walker said he could never smoke because, well, it tasted like smoke. He said his dad had been a real chimney, probably smoking up in heaven as they spoke. And they laughed, although it wasn’t that funny.

  The back of the Slater’s place was quiet; they talked there most afternoons. Found shade under the peppermint tree, played out cricket classics on the sloped back lawn. The weeds by the shed were six and out, the back fence was four, and though there was no bonus for hitting the neighbour’s cat, they both tried to do it as often as possible. Not to hit the cat, necessarily, but to see if they could master the trajectory.

  They practised footy bumps, braced for each hit. Alex got Walker good; Walker grabbed his finger, squeezed it in on itself, and it hurt like hell. Alex grabbed at his neck, pulled him in. Walker let go of his finger. Alex let go of his neck. Then they burst out laughing.

  They headed to the tree; Alex sat centre, and Walker, with a head full of leaves, in the shade of the branches.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re going back to Adelaide,’ said Walker.

  ‘It’s not so bad.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘No, it sucks. But we can ring, right?’ Alex lifted his hand to his ear. ‘Uh, hello, I’m calling long distance for a Mr Walker. Yes, I’ll hold.’

  Walker knocked down his imaginary phone with his fist. ‘Dickhead.’

  They sat for a while. Alex picked a flake of bark from the tree, flicked it away with his middle finger. ‘Why’d you come to Perth? You said your dad, right? A job?’

  Walker paused.

&
nbsp; ‘You okay?’ said Alex.

  ‘Something happened,’ said Walker.

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘No, not like that.’

  Okay. Slightly odd, thought Alex, but took the bait. ‘What do you mean?’

  Walker closed his eyes. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I won’t, weirdo. You don’t have to go back.’

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ said Walker.

  ‘I could come see you,’ said Alex. ‘You know, on holidays.’

  ‘Good one. You don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘I get it, fuckwit. I’m trying to cheer you up.’

  ‘Well don’t, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ Alex said, wanting to thump him. ‘We playing cricket or are you going to go cry to your mum?’

  ‘You’re fucking dead,’ said Walker.

  Alex grabbed his bat from under the backstairs, a GM Maestro with cherries down the meat, and they headed to the lawn. Walker bowled the ball really fast, an in-swinging Yorker that cracked Alex on the toe.

  Alex swore and lifted his bat to eye level. Walker grinned at first, but when he saw Alex’s face, the speed at which his friend was charging, he started running. Alex caught up, hit Walker hard, once across his shoulder blades, and then again, twice, across the side of his knee.

  Walker fell to the ground in slow motion. Started blubbing, real loud, and grabbed his leg, rocking back and forth. Alex dropped the bat, stared at Walker’s kneecap, the purplish stain that had surfaced around a raised white lump.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Alex. At least that’s what he thought he’d said, but it sounded quiet, far away. Walker started swearing, bawling; his leg buckled, kind of bent.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Alex. ‘You’re going to be okay.’

  Jen drove Alex back to the psych’s office that Wednesday. They parked down a side street, wandered up Fitzgerald. They stopped when they got to 215, the brick shithouse.

  ‘Behave, Alex,’ said Jen.

  ‘As opposed to?’

  ‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ she said. ‘This is serious.’

  When she left, he opened the screen door as far as he could, and intentionally let it bang shut. The office was Mrs Oliver’s, although she hoped to one day graduate to an office in West Perth, where the mums drove Saabs and the kids left the knives in the kitchen.