Don't Call Me Ishmael (19 page)

As I watched Razza and Bill kingsley disappear into the crowd, I knew nothing would ever wipe the smile off my face.

‘S'pose you thought that was funny'

I turned around. The smile was wiped off my face.

‘I wasn't trying to be funny'

The eyes that met mine sizzled with anger. They belonged to Barry Bagsley. ‘I knew you wouldn't have the guts to go through with it,' he said, spitting the words at me.

I didn't bother arguing with him. I had seen his face from the stage. We both knew the truth.

‘I just want you to lay off Bill Kingsley that's all.'

‘If I were you, I'd be more worried about myself. Maybe you got away with it for tonight, but there won't be anywhere to hide next year.'

He was right. But it didn't matter. I'd had enough of trying to make myself small. I didn't want to be the invisible boy any more. ‘I won't be hiding,' I told him.

We stood facing each other in an awful silence. I wouldn't have been surprised to see a tumbleweed roll between us.

‘Barry-there you are! I've lost your father completely. He's vanished off the face of the earth. Probably melted somewhere in that suit of his. Oh … I'm sorry–didn't see you there,' Mrs Bagsley said, turning towards me. ‘Hello.'

It was like coming face to face with Hannibal Lecter's mum.

‘Hi.'

But how did Hannibal end up with a mother like that? She was too young, too … good-looking … too bright and bubbly. When she smiled her face lit up like one of those people on an info-commercial. At any minute I expected her to try to sell me some revolutionary exercise machine to help tighten my non-existent abs.

‘Barry, where are your manners? Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?'

Luckily Mrs Bagsley was looking at me, so she didn't see her son grimace like he'd been hit in the face with a steel frying pan.

‘He's not …'

Mrs Bagsley turned her dazzling smile on her son.

‘Urn … this is … he's … Ishmael.' Barry Bagsley said my name like he'd been forced to swallow poison.

‘Ishmael? What a lovely name. Quite unusual.'

I don't know if it was because his mother was so friendly or whether it was because of the look of horror that was deepening on Barry Bagsley's face, but for once I decided not to run away from my name.

‘It's from
Moby Dick-
the novel. The narrator's called Ishmael. I was named after him. It's a long story.'

‘How interesting,' Mrs Bagsley gushed, before something caught her eye. ‘Barry, look, there's your father-near the back. You're going to have to rescue him from Mrs Armbruster before she chews both his ears off. I'll meet you both at the back door-no need for all of us to suffer,' she said with a wink. ‘Ishmael, it was lovely to meet you. I don't get the chance to talk with many of Barry's friends–most of them don't seem to be that chatty. Perhaps you could arrange with Barry to come over sometime during the holidays. You'd be very welcome.'

Barry Bagsley looked like he was about to bring up his lower intestine. I thought I'd give him a hand.

‘Sounds great.'

‘Well, you two sort it out. But Barry, be quick. I don't think your father can last much longer.'

‘Goodbye, Ishmael.'

‘ ‘Bye, Mrs Bagsley'

Barry Bagsley waited until his mother was out of sight before pointing his finger at me and narrowing his eyes. He seemed to be struggling to find words that could match the emotions raging inside him.

‘Next year,' he said somehow making those two simple words sound like a bomb threat.

‘I'll be there,' I said, and for the first time in ages, I knew it would be true.

Now I definitely heeded that fresh air.

‘Mr Leseur-a word, if you would.'

There was no mistaking that voice. ‘Mr Barker?' I said, desperately trying to think what crime I might have unknowingly committed.

‘I have just been speaking with Brother Jerome.'

This didn't sound good at all.

‘Apparently we've had a telephone call from James Scobie's father, and …'

‘Is James all right?' I broke in before I could stop myself.

Mr Barker raised his eyebrows before continuing. ‘Well, as I was about to say, it seems that the
personal
and
family
matters they were concerned about were found, on closer examination, not to be concerns at all.'

‘Great … that's great … that's …
great!'
(Great: adjective–large, enormous, massive; unusual or extreme–as in great joy;
also
colloquial
: very good or fine, exceptional, fantastic, sensational, terrific.)

‘I see that all that debating has turned you into quite an orator, Mr Leseur.'

‘Then James is coming back to school next year?'

‘Yes, we shall have the unique pleasure of Mr Scobie's company right from the very first day'

‘Great!'

‘Well, as riveting as your sparkling repartee is,' Mr Barker said as he glared towards the back of the hall, where Doug Savage and Danny Wallace were involved in some sort of tag-team wrestling match with two other boys, ‘I'm afraid I must leave you. There are some heads I have to bang together.'

‘Thanks for letting me know about James, Mr Barker. See you next year. I think you have us for Study of Society again in Year Ten.'

‘Great,' Mr Barker mumbled as he strode off.

As I turned and headed towards the exit, not even a platoon of Barry Bagsleys armed with loaded bazookas could have wiped the smile off my face.

It was time to make the long journey to the front gates, where Dad had arranged to pick me up. I took one last look at the remaining clumps of people scattered about the hall. There were no familiar faces. Fresh air, here I come!

I would have made it too, if I hadn't been involved in a head-on collision with someone who chose that precise moment to rush back into the gym.

‘Ishmael! Thank god you're still here.'

Ignatius Prindabel looked decidedly flustered.

‘I've been carrying this around all night and then I almost forgot it. My life would have been hell. Here,' he said, puffing out a breath and pushing a small envelope at me. My name was printed on the front in green pen.

‘What's this?'

‘Don't know. Don't care. Someone from my stupid sister's school gave it to my stupid sister to give to me to give to you. I just gave it to you. My work here is done. So long.'

‘Yeah, but … OK, see ya, Ignatius … and thanks for …'

But he had already vanished into the night. I moved to a quiet spot behind some stacked up chairs. I turned the envelope over in my hand before opening it and pulling out the single sheet of yellow paper that was inside. It had a border of tiny butterflies and it was filled with neat handwriting. I glanced down to the bottom of the page searching for a name.

My heart stopped.

I shot back to the start and began to read.

CALL ME
Ishmael!

Nothing could stop
me
now. I bolted from the gym and ran straight through the school grounds and across the main oval where Peter Chung had taken on the Magnon. And I kept running until my chest was burning and my legs felt like lumps of wood and I didn't stop until I found myself in the middle of the Fields where Kelly Faulkner's little brother had been bullied. Then I sank to my knees and rolled back on to the cool grass, gasping for air.

When my chest stopped heaving, I pulled out Kelly Faulkner's letter and read it through in the strong moonlight. Once again the familiar last line exploded from the page and jolted my heart. But I got it wrong. I didn't scream like I said I would. Instead I closed my eyes, threw back my head and let out the mother of all wild, barbaric yawps, and for the first time in ages, I felt alive and I felt whole again.

But do you want to know the really weird thing? Well, I'll tell you. The really weird thing was that as I lay there with
only the raspy sound of my breathing filling my ears and with the spongy grass of St Daniel's playing fields buoying me up, I could have sworn that I was floating and bobbing on the surface of a vast green ocean. Remind you of anyone?

Go on–call me Ishmael if you like.

After all, as the Big Z would say, I'm da man!

Thanks above all to my wife Adriana, for continuing to find me ‘tolerable', and for writing all the very best bits of my life; also to my daughter Meg, for not letting on yet that she's far more talented than her father.

Extra special thanks this time around to my son Joe, for taking time out from being the next Spielberg to cast his expert eye over the manuscript, for designing and constructing the wonderful cover, and for bringing ‘Ringo' to life.

My immense gratitude, as always, goes to the good folk at Omnibus Books and Scholastic Australia, especially the dynamic duo of Dyan Blacklock and Celia Jellett, who continue to make it possible for my dreams to come true.

Heartfelt thanks also to family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances and strangers who have said such lovely things about the first book and encouraged me to keep writing.

Finally, thank you to Marist College, Ashgrove, and schools like it that celebrate the worth of the individual and challenge their students to ‘act courageously'.

Also by Michael Gerard Bauer

There had always been the Running Man–always that phantom form somewhere in the distance, always shuffling relentlessly closer …

Tom Leyton, a reclusive Vietnam veteran, has been the subject of rumour and gossip for thirty years. When Joseph Davidson, his young neighbour and a talented artist, is asked to draw a portrait of him, an uneasy relationship begins to unfold, one that will force each of them to confront his darkest secrets.

This is a story of how we perceive others, the judgments we make about them, how we cope with tragedy, and the nature of miracles.

Michael Gerard Bauer was born in Brisbane and lives in the suburb of Ashgrove, the setting of his first novel
The Running Man.
Since completing an Arts degree and a Diploma of Education at the University of Queensland, he has taught English and Economics at schools in the Brisbane–Ipswich region. In recent years he has taken regular breaks from teaching to pursue a writing career.

The Running Man
was Book of the Year (Older Readers) in the Children's Book Council of Australia's Awards in 2005, and was shortlisted in the Victorian Premier's Literary Awards, the New South Wales Premier's Literary Awards and the South Australian Festival Awards. It was also the winner of the
Courier Mail
Readers' Choice Award and shortlisted for the
Courier Mail
Book of the Year for Younger Readers Award.

Don't Call Me Ishmael!
was shortlisted for Book of the Year (Older Readers) in the Children's Book Council of Australia's Awards, and the New South Wales Premier's Awards in 2007.

Published by Scholastic Australia Pty Ltd
PO Box 579, Gosford NSW 2250.
ABN 11 000 614 577
www.scholastic.com.au

Part of the Scholastic Group
Sydney • Auckland • New York • Toronto • London • Mexico City •
New Delhi • Hong Kong • Buenos Aires • Puerto Rico

SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

Text copyright © Michael Gerard Bauer, 2006.
Cover and text illustrations copyright © Joe Bauer, 2006.

Print edition first published in 2011 by Omnibus, an imprint of Scholastic Australia.

This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited in 2012.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.

EPUB/MOBI eISBN 978 1 921 98869 1