Launched! (11 page)

Bryce cycled home from The Van, his thoughts at first swirling in his head in masses of brown and blue and black, then finally taking form in words. A bar of music was added, then a melody. Bryce tested them out, his voice ringing pure through the chilled afternoon air:

Wanting to fly

Willing to try

I don’t know why

He paused, searching for the next line:

I crash to the ground.

He hummed the tune, trying it on for size, then added the lyrics again, delighted at the way they all melded together. Searching for a second verse, he pedalled half-heartedly, the
meanderings in his head mirroring the meanderings of his bike.

Soaring up high

Never say die
…

He stalled, unable to find the words for what he wanted to say. Bryce was so distracted by his song lyrics that he forgot to watch where he was going. Too late, he was centimetres away from crashing into a café placard advertising hot coffee and donuts. Bryce swerved, then swerved again as he realised he was about to wipe out a street tramp napping in the late afternoon’s rays. The bike wobbled, rammed into some low railings, then flipped right over the top of them, depositing Bryce on the other side as well.

This was a part of the station Bryce had never seen before. The walls were blackened, and etched into the grime was the unmistakeable warning:
Keep Out.

Bryce looked for an exit path then glanced upwards to where he’d fallen from. The ground on this side of the fence was much lower than the ground on the street side. He realised he wasn’t tall enough to climb back over, especially not with a bike. He swung around to examine his surroundings. There was rock, and a brick and cement wall, but no obvious exit. Bryce cursed himself again. He had no choice but to leave the
bike and look for a way out on foot. He pushed the bike deeper into the shadows and secured it to the fence post with his trusty chain, then picked his way along the back of the building. Suddenly he stumbled into a courtyard. He looked around and whistled appreciatively. Four huge walls. Graf heaven. A place to paint where no-one would move you on or arrest you. A place to nurture talent.

The artwork here was different to that on the streets. On the streets crews left tags and throw-ups on every surface they could find, like dogs marking their territory. Here, graf was a celebration, with vibrant colours and forms rejoicing in life, demanding respect. Normally graf didn’t last. It got painted over, sandblasted, postered over, scribbled on, scrubbed off and built over. But here, some of it had even had a chance to fade. Bryce stood back, admiring the styles, which ranged from rounded to chain-like, to bubble lettering, to gothic, to computer font, to 3-D; the writers with names like Nite Wolf and Swet, Jungle, Phunk, and Xtreme 703.

Bryce was struck by an almost overwhelming desire, the desire to paint, to grab a spray can and lose himself in a creation. He ached with it. But then the words of the judge rang in his head and he knew that he couldn’t. He lay down on the
stone floor to gaze up at the artwork, like Michelangelo at the Sistine Chapel. How could anyone call this vandalism?

Bryce studied one particular wall, admiring how the writer had been able to dream their own world. They’d drawn a livid blue sky, and the ground was black, studded with yellow grids of light. Figures floated in the air, moon-dust sprinkling from their hands and feet, leaving a vapour trail across the heavens. How Bryce longed to join them. They looked like falling fireworks. And to the left, in a swish of reds and yellows and oranges, Bryce saw one: a shooting star. He frowned, then sat up and looked around. Dotted around the walls in varied shapes and sizes were heaps more.

Under the picture the writer had written,
Loneliness is the price of flight.
Bryce felt as if the message was meant for him.

He leapt to his feet, his heart pounding.
That’s it!
he thought. He’d found the way to make contact. He’d communicate through the shooting star. He’d find whoever took Tong’s bike, whoever bombed The Van. He quivered with excitement. He’d found a way to get back with his friends.

And he’d found a way to get back to graf! Laughter bubbled from his heart, pinging from his lips like soap suds.

Wanting to fly

Willing to try

I don’t know why

I crash to the ground.

Soaring up high

Touching the sky

Never say die

Look what I found.

Bryce looked around, searching for a way out. In the far corner of the courtyard there was a door. He tried the handle. As expected, the door was locked. He walked along each wall. At the last corner, hidden by shadows, he found a narrow walkway. Bryce shivered as he checked his watch. His stomach went
clunk
! Late home—again.

He scooted down the walkway, which turned right then left. He passed another door, again trying the handle. It didn’t open either.
What’s with the security mafia?
he thought. Several metres further on he came to a T junction. Which way? Right or left? To the naked eye, the paths were mirror images of each other.

When in doubt, turn right,
Bryce told himself. It was the same logic he used in multiple choice exams—if you don’t know the answer, pick C. It was uncanny how often C was right. He
remembered doing probability at school and being told that if you asked people to pick a number between one and ten most people picked seven, but he couldn’t remember why. Bryce turned right, moving by instinct. The walkway led to some sort of work room. Spanners and wrenches and screwdrivers lined the walls. The long work bench was littered with scraps of metal. A faint smell of welding hung in the air, like paraffin or candle wax. Half-filled coffee cups and chip wrappers dotted the landscape, giving the impression that whoever worked there had only just downed tools.

There was another door, and this time Bryce was in luck. He pushed his way through into a dingy part of the station, relieved to have found a way out. As he passed under a railing, out of the corner of his eye he spotted two little kids, absorbed in playing cards. He halted. It was hard to tell their ages, but they were young. Much younger than him. Belts secured oversized shorts to their gaunt frames. Their sweatshirts hung like sacks. With lacklustre eyes, they played what Bryce guessed to be Snap. He wondered what they were doing there, tucked in a nook at the railway station, then it occurred to him that maybe they were the pickpockets. He watched tiny hands shuffle the deck of cards and knew they had the speed and dexterity needed for stealing.

Bryce wanted to watch the kids longer, but time was against him. He stepped closer, clearing his throat so as not to frighten them. They bolted like rabbits at the click of a trigger. He gave chase, desperate to ask them what they knew. Forget the wrath of his father! But the kids were too quick. They seemed to disappear into thin air. He wondered if they’d be okay, then shook his head at his own stupidity. Of course they’d be okay. He had been, hadn’t he? Bryce hurried round to street level and walked along the fence, apprehension turning to relief when he found the chain and pulled up his bike.

He headed for home, forming a plan. First he’d go on the Net, and see who’d sell him some paint. He knew all too well the laws against selling spray cans to minors. Failing that, he’d have to look out for someone he knew, someone from the old days. Or maybe approach someone older to buy it for him at the hardware store. Then he’d leave his mark and see what he turned up.

Getting the paint and sneaking out that night proved remarkably easy.

Keeping his secret did not.

‘How’d you find your first day at school?’ Mio asked Tong as she doubled him to The Van.

Tong shuddered as he said, ‘Very confusing. Many time get lost.’

Mio laughed, saying, ‘It sure is a big school. The biggest. When I first went there last year I spent every recess in the toilets and every lunch in the library, hoping to avoid people. I was terrified.’

‘Me, too. Giant terrified.’

Mio laughed again. ‘You can’t have giant terrified, but I know what you mean. You were very, very scared.’

‘Many very’s,’ said Tong, sending Mio into more fits of laughter.

‘You’ll get the hang of it.’

Tong frowned, saying, ‘I hope so.’

Today Darcy was on food duty, but he’d been in such a rush when he left for school that morning that he’d grabbed the easiest thing he could find. Clem arrived, with Bella, at the same time as Mio and Tong.

‘Let’s start,’ said Darcy. ‘I’m starving.’ He pulled a face as he added, ‘Not that this is that filling.’

First he poured some green jelly crystals into a bowl. Next, he grabbed a packet of jumbo size marshmallows from his bag. Using a small spray bottle Darcy squirted a fine mist of water over the marshmallows to moisten them. Then he threw them into the bowl and coated them with jelly powder. ‘I call these squisharoonies,’ he announced, squishing one between his thumb and forefinger. Then, using his fingers he placed four on each plate.

‘Don’t forget some for Bryce,’ said Clem. ‘He’ll be starving when he gets here.’ Then she checked her watch and frowned.

By the time the kids finished their squisharoonies there was still no sign of Bryce.

‘He said he’d come,’ said Mio. ‘Something must’ve happened.’

‘Maybe he heard Darcy was on food duty and decided to stay away,’ teased Clem.

‘I can cook!’

‘No you can’t.’

‘Can.’

‘Can’t.’

Darcy folded his arms across his chest and tipped back on the crate. ‘What do you call the squisharoonies then?’

Everyone chimed in.

‘Lumpy jelly.’

‘Marshmallow mush.’

‘A trip to the dentist.’

‘Very funny.’

By the time the kids had cleaned up and Bella had licked the bowl there was still no sign of Bryce. ‘Wish he’d get a phone,’ moaned Clem. ‘It’d make life much easier.’

‘Let’s give up and go to The Peak,’ said Darcy. ‘Bryce’ll know where we are, seeing as the bike trials are only
five
days away.’

A frisson of fear shot through Mio. ‘I don’t think we should go. I don’t think we’re ready,’ she said.

‘You scared of those bike gangs or scared of losing?’ asked Darcy.

‘Both.’

Darcy flung his arm round Mio’s shoulders. ‘We’ll stick together. Any funny business and we’re out of there.’

‘And it doesn’t matter if we lose,’ said Clem. ‘Mum always says, you can only do your best. Might as well give it a try.’

The kids rode up to The Peak. This time Darcy and Tong swapped so that Tong pedalled and Darcy went along for the ride.

‘This’s the life,’ said Darcy, holding out his legs and leaning back, enjoying the challenge of trying to balance. But his tall frame jerked about, slowing Tong down. By the time they got there Tong was pooped.

Although it was crowded, there were not as many bikes as before. Mio and Clem studied each group that went past, praying that they wouldn’t bump into that other team. The kids headed for a place that looked like a man-made gully. It was interspersed with huge slabs of sandstone. Around the edge was a low wall with a narrow ledge. Tufts of grass sprouted everywhere, brown from lack of rain.

‘We call this riding a line,’ Darcy explained to Tong. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’ Darcy rode up a ramp that joined with the wall then stood up from the saddle, legs straight for his ‘set up’. His outstretched arms were rigid as his hands gripped the handlebars. Then slowly he began to ride. The fence curved and zig-zagged with more angles than a geometry book. Darcy took each one, confident
he’d get Bullet over the line. When he made it back to the ramp he held up an arm in a victory salute then dropped off.

Tong decided to take the same line, but to ride in the opposite direction.

Darcy grinned to himself at Tong’s dogged determination to be his own person.

Next, they practised ups. Clem lifted Bella out of the basket and onto the ground, where several lizards were sunning themselves on a huge rock.

‘Watch Bella prounce,’ said Clem. ‘I call it prounce ‘cause she sort of prances and pounces at the same time.’ In no time at all the lizards had fled and Bella was left running in circles looking for them. Clem watched from the side, beaming like a new mother.

First they upped a wall, then a huge pipe, and finally a planter—where they all failed, except Darcy. ‘We’re going to have to do better than that,’ he said with a frown.

‘Still no sign of Bryce,’ said Clem. ‘Wonder where he is?’

Darcy scowled. ‘If he’s not going to practise, he may as well be off the team.’ He remembered the time he’d begged off soccer practice to watch TV and how the following week a pass that should’ve been an easy nick off the boot into goal had missed and cost them the game. He remembered his
father’s face. The humiliation. The anger. His team’s disappointment. His shame.

Clem was aghast. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘Watch me.’

‘Bryce’s a Freewheeler,’ said Mio, coming to his defence.

‘Freewheeler,’ echoed Tong, cringing inwardly at the friction in the group.

‘Not for long.’

‘Where were you yesterday?’ Darcy asked Bryce when he joined the group at school the next morning. ‘You didn’t come to practice.’

‘I was busy.’ Bryce’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wanna make something of it?’

‘As a matter of fact I do. If you’re not committed to the bike trials, you can rethink your place on our crew.’

Bryce took a step back, surprised by this attack. He wanted to tell them what he was up to, but he didn’t dare. He looked at the faces of his friends. Once welcoming, now they seemed distant. How had it come to this? ‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’ he managed to say. He noticed that Clem, Tong and Mio averted their eyes,
confirming what he suspected, that this was Darcy’s gripe, not theirs. But then this voice in his head said,
True friends would stick up for you,
and he felt hurt.

‘Bryce is part of our group,’ said Clem in a don’t-argue-with-me voice.

Bryce felt a rush of relief.

‘Yes,’ said Mio.

‘Freewheeler.’

Darcy shrugged. ‘Groups stick together,’ he said.

‘And we will,’ agreed Bryce. ‘I’ll be at practice this afternoon. I’ll meet you at The Van. Afternoon tea’s on me.’

‘You betcha,’ said Darcy. ‘It’s your turn.’

When Bryce ducked home that afternoon he was surprised to see his dad’s car in the driveway. It was way too early for him to be home from work.
The baby?!
he thought, but then he realised that if Cara had had the baby the car would be at the hospital, not here. Bryce’s heart started to thump. It thumped so loud he could feel it vibrate in his ears. His mouth felt parched and he could taste fear. He wanted to run, but where? Running hadn’t been the answer before. He dragged himself up the path to the front door.

There was a stillness in the house that surprised him. ‘Dad?’ he called. ‘Cara?’ He walked down the
hallway towards the kitchen. There were no familiar sounds and smells. ‘Dad?’ Bryce went from living room to bedroom to bedroom until only one room remained. His room. Bryce pushed open his door then halted, terror etched into his face.

His father was sitting on the edge of the bed, a backpack in his lap, the can of spray paint in his hands. As Bryce walked in he looked up. For a split second Bryce thought he saw sadness, but then the face rearranged itself into fury, like an alien in a horror movie.

‘I can explain…’

At four o’clock, with no sign of Bryce, no-one was particularly worried. By a quarter past, hungry gnawings put them on edge, and by half past four tempers were fraying.

‘What did I tell you?’ demanded Darcy to the rest of the Freewheelers. ‘He doesn’t give a duck’s butt about us.’

Tong frowned. He wondered why Darcy would be talking about a duck’s bottom. He thought of the women in the markets back home, chatting with friends, surrounded by a white carpet of live ducks. He could hear the cacophony of quacks and the flapping of feathers as the ducks fought for food, and he could smell the earthy stench of
manure. The sound of Darcy’s voice snapped him back to the present.

‘He’s out. No maybes about it.’

Clem sighed then said, ‘Before we make any snap decisions, why don’t we talk this over with Mr Lark? He’ll know what we should do.’

‘Good idea,’ said Mio. ‘He’s always got good advice.’

‘We go see Mr Lark,’ said Tong.

An unwilling Darcy joined them as they rode to Mr Lark’s. Mio offered to double with Tong and a grateful Tong accepted, reluctant to ride with Darcy when he was so
túc gi
n,
so angry. They rode single file, with not one word passing between them.

Mr Lark was sitting on his front veranda when they arrived. ‘Hey, guys! Good to see you.’ He eased forward and hoisted himself out of the wicker chair with a huge smile on his face and his arms outstretched, like someone greeting loved ones at an airport. Clem ran straight to him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tight. ‘Ease up,’ he warned, ‘or you’ll give me an hour-glass figure, which is going to look pretty stupid on a man my age.’

Clem laughed and stepped away. Even Darcy cracked a smile as they walked into the familiar kitchen. They settled around the table, soaking up the warmth of the sun streaming through the
windows and enjoying the tendrils of coffee smells from the pot on the stove. Already they were feeling better.

‘Hungry?’ asked Mr Lark.

‘Yes!’

‘Might whip you up a hopel-popel,’ he said, reaching for the fridge door.

‘What hopeh-popeh?’

‘Hopel-popel. You’ll see.’

As Mr Lark assembled the ingredients he asked, ‘Where’s Bryce? This’ll be one of his faves.’

No-one answered, unsure how to broach the subject.

‘He coming?’ asked Mr Lark, his brow furrowing.

‘No.’

Mr Lark hesitated at the fridge door, thought better of probing, then returned to his cooking. Instead of leaping in to help, the kids sat back and watched. First, a pan was lightly sprayed with oil and a clove of crushed garlic was added. Next, he tossed in some chopped onion, and sliced mushroom. They sizzled in the pan, flooding the kitchen with rainy Sunday afternoon smells and making mouths water.

‘So, how’ve you all been?’ asked Mr Lark.

‘Good.’

‘Okay.’

‘Fine.’

‘I am very well, thank you.’

Mr Lark looked at the sea of blank faces, shrugged, but kept cooking. ‘I see.’ Some diced potatoes were thrown in the pan and slowly heated through. This was torture for Darcy, who was so hungry he would have eaten the potato and onion skins and even the mushroom stalks raw.

‘Now for some scrambled eggs, a bit of grated cheese, some salt and pepper and Bob’s your uncle,’ said Mr Lark.

‘Please, Mr Lark. I have Uncle Hai.’

Normally everyone would have chuckled at Tong’s misunderstanding, but today nobody made a sound.
What’s going on?
wondered Mr Lark.

As the eggs turned a golden yellow Clem grabbed some plates and Darcy got the cutlery.

Still no-one talked.

Finally, the hopel-popel was placed under a hot grill till it was a tawny brown.

‘Great army grub,’ announced Mr Lark, cutting wedges and lifting them onto the plates, including one for himself. The melted cheese stretched in long strings that clung to chins but soon disappeared with a flick of the tongue.

Tong grabbed his fork awkwardly; he was still much more comfortable with
doi dua
or chopsticks. ‘This is very good food,’ he said
after his first mouthful, then proceeded to down the rest.

Five minutes later the table was littered with empty plates.

‘Thanks, Mr Lark,’ said Clem. ‘That was delicious.’ Darcy burped, flooding the kitchen with a repeat of onion and garlic and prompting from Clem, ‘You’re disgusting.’

Darcy burped again, making Mio wince. In Japan, burping in public was a no-no.

Mr Lark watched as the kids washed their plates and cleared and wiped the bench, noting the silence between them. ‘I can’t stand it any more,’ he blurted. ‘What’s going on?’

As the story came tumbling out, Mr Lark listened but made no comment, content to let them talk till they had nothing left to say.

‘…now Darcy wants Bryce out of the Freewheelers but I’m not so sure,’ finished up Clem.

‘Not practising with us will cost us the bike trial,’ said Darcy.

‘More than that,’ said Tong. ‘It cost us friend.’

Darcy sniffed, saying, ‘Some friend.’

Mr Lark leant back in his kitchen chair, stroking his chin as he chose his words. ‘Bryce is a good kid who once lost his way.’ He paused then went on. ‘Now he’s trying really hard to be good again, so
what you’re telling me doesn’t make sense. Why would he hang with his old crowd when he’s got you?’

‘’Cause he’s not like us!’ said Darcy.

Mio shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Tong sat with a heavy heart whilst Clem felt torn.

‘Why would he avoid practice?’

‘’Cause he’s with his graffiti crew. We’ve seen his tag.’

‘His tag’s everywhere,’ said Mio. ‘Even all over The Van.’

At that Mr Lark recoiled, saying, ‘Bryce would never graffiti The Van. It’s his second home.’

Clem thought about the day they had gone to visit Bryce. ‘More like his first home,’ she said with a shudder. ‘Things still aren’t crash hot at his house.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Mr Lark. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on him?’

Darcy retorted, ‘We gave him a second chance. He was going to come this afternoon. It was his turn to bring food. But he never showed.’

‘The Bryce I know always keeps his word,’ said Mr Lark. He tapped the table as he thought out loud. ‘Something’s not right.’

‘Maybe Cara’s had the baby?’ suggested Mio. ‘We forgot about that.’

Clem’s face brightened. ‘The baby! I’m sure that’s it. They’re known for arriving early.’

Mr Lark turned to Darcy. His voice held an edge. ‘Give him another chance. He’s a Freewheeler. He deserves it.’

‘Freewheelers!’ said Clem, eager to put this unpleasantness behind them.

‘Freewheelers!’

‘Freewheelers.’

But one voice abstained. ‘Darcy?’ coaxed Clem. Then her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘Darcy, please…’