My Private Pectus (4 page)

As with most things, Gez is better at surfing than me. He'll go out in any break no matter how many people are out there or on the beach. He doesn't have a body to hide. I watch as he carves up the messy waves, toying with them. It takes me half-a-dozen rides before I find my balance. We spend most of the morning surfing, paddling back out, sitting on our boards behind the breakwater.

‘Don't worry about Mike,' Gez says, covered in goose bumps, which make him look even more cut than usual. ‘He was pissed, that's all. And stoned.'

‘So were you, but you didn't go on about it,' I say, watching the horizon for another set, not wanting to talk about last night.

‘He was surprised, that's all.'

I look at him. ‘What's the surprise, Gez?' I rattle off a bunch of guys at school. ‘I guarantee you they haven't done it either. And what about Cuppas? Only thing he's screwed is a sock.'

Gez blows his nose into his hand, then splashes the snot in the water. ‘Mike likes you, that's all.'

I laugh in disbelief.

‘It's true, he does.'

I shake my head.

‘He thinks you're funny.'

‘I'm not funny.'

‘You're gonna join the army, aren't you? That's pretty funny, if you ask me.'

‘Dad wants me to join the army. That's his wild idea, not mine.'

‘He pays out on you for fun. It's his way of being a friend.'

‘Friend? Some friend.'

‘Think about it, Sticks. What Mike needs are friends. How many has he got? Ryan, that's it. Let's face it, making friends is not his strong point.'

But I don't like Gez's observation. ‘And how many friends have I got, Gez? Nothing to get jealous about.'

‘Come on, a friend like me? That's plenty to get jealous about.'

I laugh, but it's true.

As the morning gets late, Gez and I head back in for lunch. We laze around with Ryan and Mike, then head back to the surf before dusk. The wind has died down and the waves are starting to crest. We paddle out, sit on our boards behind the breakers and let the swell roll underneath as we talk about school, the convenience store and Lisa.

‘So there must be a girl at school you like?' Mike asks me. He seems genuinely interested.

‘I dunno,' I say.

‘You're weird,' he says, then rolls off his board, ducks underwater and comes back up. ‘I always had the hots for someone at school.' He wipes water from his eyes. ‘Jeez, I'm hung over.'

‘What about Sam?' Gez asks as a small set rolls underneath.

‘Thanks a lot,' I say.

‘Why, who's Sam?' Ryan asks.

‘Samuel,' Mike says and laughs at his own joke.

‘Samantha,' I say. ‘She's a chick from school.'

‘A chick who's signed up for the footy team and will get with any guy who looks in her direction. An easy starter for Sticks, I reckon,' Gez says with a smirk.

Ryan grimaces.

‘She didn't sign up for the team,' I say. ‘That was The P trying to be funny.'

Mike says, ‘Either way, the only time you go for a girl like that is when you're rat-faced, it's two in the morning and she's the last chance you've got.'

‘Sounds like your sort,' Ryan says to Mike.

He nods. ‘Have you got her number, Sticks, because if you can't be bothered—'

‘What, and you could?'

‘You jealous?'

‘No way. She's anyone's. A bush pig.'

‘Nah, she's actually all right,' Gez says.

‘That's easy for you to say. Lisa's a fox and she did all the chasing.'

‘I reckon you're a catch,' Mike says to me, but I'm not sure if he's serious. ‘If you'd loosen up a bit.'

I turn away and watch the horizon. It rises as a set steadily approaches, seemingly harmless and lazy. I kick slowly, approaching it, planning to let it pass underneath. But the others kick harder, stroke more powerfully. It's not until the other three have pulled out ahead that I realise it's come up faster than I expected.

I panic, kick hard, pull frantically at the water. I try to pop over the lip, but it's too late. It catches me, points me skywards then pounds me. The world churns, salt water fills my nose, the leg rope yanks at my ankle.

I pop up, gasp and quickly scan for the next wave. That's when I see Gez, surfing down its face, carving it up like an artist. I pull on my leg rope, slide my board underneath, duck dive, letting the wave pass over. I paddle back out. Ryan and Mike laugh, but I ignore them and turn as another wave approaches. Paddling hard, I look back over my shoulder as it starts to rise. It catches up and towers beneath me. I peer at the water below, getting further away. In a growing panic, I try to abort, but my momentum suddenly matches the speed of the wave. And then for a moment I'm lost—lost in the smell of the surf, the salt, and the raw speed of the wave. I get to my feet and the board spears down the face. I carve left then cut right, skimming the water with my fingers. I yell in delight at the sound of the wave curling and crashing behind me. Then it starts to tube. A green tunnel forms and for a moment I'm gone, I'm lost in another universe. All I can hear is water and the slice of my board. But then, in my excitement, I catch the downward rail of the board. The wave plunges me deep and thrashes my body. But this time I don't care. I love the sting of the salt, the sand in my wetsuit. I pop to the surface then paddle towards the shore.

Standing knee-deep I turn to watch Gez ride another wave all the way in. He crouches as he nears me, and takes off his leg rope. He leaps off and tries to tackle me. I can feel his muscles as we wrestle. We both fall, laughing, then sit in the water, holding our boards as Mike and Ryan come in.

As we walk along the beach, heading back to the shack, all I can do is think that it has been the perfect day. That's until Mike says we have to go home early.

‘Gotta work at ten tomorrow,' he says.

We all pause and he keeps walking.

‘I thought we were staying for the whole weekend,' Gez calls after him.

Mike stops, turns and shrugs.

‘We'll have to leave here at seven,' I say.

‘Eight,' Mike says.

‘What's the difference?' Gez asks. ‘How long have you known about work?'

‘All along,' Mike says then keeps on walking.

The next morning, I drive ten Ks below the limit to prolong getting home. Mike pulls on a joint and blows the smoke out the window.

‘You know what we should do,' I say.

Ryan looks at me from the passenger seat.

‘Have Gez's eighteenth up there.' I watch Gez's reaction in the rear-view mirror. He grins, leans forward then grabs my nipple and twists.

‘Hey!' I yell and pull his hand away. The car jerks and he lets go.

‘Great idea, Sticks,' he says.

And for the rest of the way we talk about the party.

‘There'll be a bonfire on the sand near the lake,' I say.

‘And we'll turn the shack into a dance floor,' Gez says.

‘And I'm gonna root some chick out in the dunes,' Mike yells.

I turn the stereo up and the speakers distort, Ryan slaps the dash with the beat, Gez sings along.

By the time I drop them off my mood is back up. I've got something to look forward to: a party at Currimundi! It'll be a cinch getting people along.

Nearing home, I slow down as I go along Deshon Street. I peer at the shops: panel beaters, an engineering works, a wrecking yard and Oscar's, the mechanic. That's where Dad takes the Pissan. I pull in thinking I'll pick up a few second-hand door handles for the Bluebird.

Oscar's giant shed smells of cigarettes and grease. He's behind the counter, wearing oil-stained jeans and a tucked-in blue T-shirt with holes that reveal the white skin of his fat stomach. I tell him what I want and he thumbs in the direction of the wrecking yard.

‘I need a screwdriver,' I say.

He scratches his greasy hands in his beard and mumbles something I can't catch and pulls one out from below the counter.

Ten minutes later I return with two door handles I took from a Bluebird shell out the back. I slap a tenner on the counter and he nods in appreciation. Then just as I'm about to leave I see something—an advert stuck to the counter with masking tape. Oscar's looking for a casual to start in early October. It says apply within as if you're not in already. He sees me looking and hands me a business card. I shove it into my pocket and drive home without much thought.

Pulling into the driveway, I still feel pretty good. Then I feel great when I get to the door and realise Dad's not in. Knight Rider yelps, runs circles around my feet and slobbers in excitement. I go back out to the Pissan and unload my board and take it to the back shed. I go back for my bag then head inside. Cranking the lounge room stereo I sing along, but when I get to my room I stop. My bag slips from my shoulder and thuds to the floor. There's a brand new jersey on the bed and a pair of red footy boots on the floor.

It's after school. The boys mill around the oval, pushing and tackling each other. I'm sitting on the edge, not wanting to be here. Our first training session. Dad's over at the Pissan unloading brightly coloured field markers and his favourite Steeden footy.

The P is teaching Cuppas how to pass the ball by making it spin and torpedo through the air. Cuppas throws another wobbly pass. As I get close I can hear The P say, ‘Jeeesus! How many times do I have to show you?'

‘Rack off,' Cuppas says.

The P says, ‘You're a wanker.'

Cuppas grabs his man boobs and shakes them.

I stop next to Gez, who looks at my boots.

‘I can't believe they're red,' he says, grinning.

His boots are new as well, but they're cheap. Black. Inconspicuous. He scuffed them against the wall of the change room before coming out. They look a season old already.

Frank Maloney wanders onto the oval, a net bag of footballs slung over one shoulder. Dad's with him, chatting away, almost bouncing with excitement. But he's also nervous. I can tell by the way he keeps rubbing the scar on the back of his neck. He scans the faces and bodies before him, probably trying to guess at their calibre. His chest is puffed, but not enough to stop his round belly from protruding over his shorts. A number of the boys turn to me, grinning. Steve pads his own stomach in reference to Dad's.

Maloney gathers us around. ‘This is Mr McDermott, Jack's dad,' he says.

Dad stands proud and says, ‘You can call me Brian if you like, or by my rank, which is Captain.'

‘Or Ferret,' I say. ‘His nickname is Ferret.' But only a few boys laugh.

Dad raises his hand and accepts the halfhearted laughter, but his eyes flick threateningly in my direction. Maloney, meanwhile, glares at me, hands on hips. He's not into this preferred name stuff, he's too old-school for that. Maloney's a rules man. You can tell by the stiff way he dresses: polo shirts, sneakers so clean they glow, a strap for his sunnies so he can hang them from his neck. But the socks are what set him apart: hauled up to his knees, kept there with a band of elastic. He's in his mid-fifties and he loves school structure. He gets off on sending kids to the principal.

‘Can we play a game, sir?' Cuppas asks Dad.

‘It's Brian or Captain, are you deaf?' The P tells him.

‘Or Ferret,' someone up the back shouts, which is followed by a stronger volley of laughter.

‘Sir, can we?' Cuppas insists.

Dad looks to Maloney to see if he's happy to get things started. Maloney nods.

‘This is how it will work,' Dad says, his arms crossed. ‘You do what I say, and you do it well, you'll make the team. You take a slacker's approach, and sit around on your backside and don't have a go, your skinny butt will be lucky to make the bench.' He looks straight at me before sending his attention back to the team. ‘I've played footy for years,' he says, one finger raised. ‘I played Kingaroy A-grade and we were the best team in the South Burnett,' he says.

‘Where's that?' I hear someone ask.

But Dad doesn't stop to explain. ‘And I was the best hooker this side of the Queensland border. Even the Brisbane teams were sniffing at me. But I chose the army instead, where I learnt team work and discipline, and that's what I'm here to teach you lot.'

Bored, I scuff my boots together. They glisten even harder.

‘Sir, can we just start playing?' Cuppas whines.

‘You'll play a game once you boys earn it,' he says. ‘Train well, nail your drills, then we'll play.'

‘That's crap, sir,' Cuppas coughs into his hands. And because it was Cuppas, nearly all of us go, ‘Eeeeer,' like a herd of sheep, then say, ‘ya wanker.'

Dad glares at him, but says nothing.

He gets us to stretch then run a few laps of the oval. I lope along with Cuppas gasping behind me. Gez keeps up with the pack no worries, but slows down on the last lap so he can talk with me.

‘You know what we should do,' he says, barely puffing. ‘We should have a themed party.'

I think about all the failed themed parties I've been to, like the ‘M' party Marissa Anderson organised for her sixteenth. Most of the guys rocked up as Maloney—their socks hauled up to their knees. As the night went on they tried to outdo each other. Socks crept up to groins. Gez and I left early.

‘Why would you want a themed party?'

‘Not just any theme,' he says. ‘A theme we've gotta work on. You know, put some real effort into. A theme that makes everyone say, “I wanna be there”.'

‘Example?'

‘I dunno. Hawaiian maybe?'

‘Hawaiian sucks,' I say.

‘No way,' he says. ‘I like Hawaiian.' He looks back over his shoulder and yells out to Cuppas, ‘If I invited you to a Hawaiian party, would you come?'

I don't turn around, but I can imagine Cuppas' face: purple-red, beads of sweat on his acne, his eyelids half closed with exhaustion. His cheeks rise, a grin covers his face and his eyes light up like a pair of spotties. Cuppas never gets invited to anything.

‘Hawaiian's the pits!' he yells.

I nearly trip over.

‘Pump with your arms!' Dad yells as he gets us into our first drill. He's got us running back and forth between two lines on the ground. But I don't mind the sprints, as long as we don't do too many. Despite my loping style, I can keep pace with, or even beat some of the guys. But I'm useless at the ball drills. All legs. No hands. The ball slips from my grasp and I trip over myself when I go to pick it up. At least I look like I'm trying. I wear the most stains.

Dad yells words of encouragement, ‘Watch the ball all the way to your hands. Don't watch the defence. You'll do better next time.' That kind of rubbish.

Until now, Maloney has been watching, as if to make sure Dad's up to scratch. But by the time the ball drills are done, he heads back to the sports shed. The moment he leaves, Dad gets us all together.

We're doused in sweat. It's humid and threatening to rain.

He gives us the low-down: ‘Three teams,' he says as it starts to spit. ‘Two teams will play at a time, but when one team makes a mistake or gets a try scored against them, they come off and the other team goes on. The better you play the more game-time you'll get. I'm watching to see who's good enough for the team.'

Most of the boys look at each other as if they're mortal enemies. I avoid all glances, except for Gez's. He has his hands on his hips, head poked forward and is squinting at me, mocking the others. I snigger.

‘You got that?' Dad says, looking at us.

I turn away.

‘Have
you
got it?' But it's not Dad, it's The P repeating him.

‘Get lost,' I tell him, but The P laughs and Dad says, ‘Who wants to join Gerald and Jack as the team on the sideline?'

We watch as the others tackle and run, trying to prove their talent. Gez leans back on his elbows as if he's at the beach. I try scuffing my shoes on the wet grass, but that doesn't work either. I think they're starting to glow.

The P carves everyone up as the rain gets heavier. Balls are dropped, boys slip over, the teams get rotated. I go straight to the wing, thinking that will keep me out of the play and less likely to screw up. But then Dad sends me closer to the ruck and to the action. It could be worse. At least that's closer to Gez, who looks out for me. He stands next to me in defence, makes the tackles first, then I come in second to finish them off. The opposition protests when I come in too late, but Dad doesn't seem to care.

Gez is dynamite whenever he gets the ball. He keeps the defence guessing, keeps me guessing, too. I've no idea where to position myself. At one point, he throws me a ball and the moment I catch it I get hammered by Cuppas. I land on my back, but as I twist to get up, he descends, drives an elbow into my kidneys, his full weight behind it. I drop the ball, arching my back in pain.

The whistle blasts. ‘Knock on!' Dad bellows.

‘What about the elbow?' Gez yells, arms raised. ‘That's a penalty!'

‘Fair tackle. Knock on.'

The game moves on from where I lie. In fact, I don't play any more. Hunched over, I leave the field and wait in the rain till we're allowed to head back to the dunnies to get changed.

I take a spot on an aluminium bench seat along the wall. The boys rip their jerseys off and dump them on the floor with a squelch. Most guys shower in their undies, only one or two take everything off. Wanting to get changed without prying eyes, I head to the cubicles. But each one is occupied, so I wait, rubbing my arms because I'm cold from the rain.

A commotion starts up, but I can't see around the corner to know what's happening. Then Cuppas, just in his footy shorts, comes running, holding a T-shirt in one hand. He spins, his arms out in front, trying to use the shirt to block a towel that lashes at his creamy thighs. He screams, ‘No! No! Don't!' in his high-pitched voice. The P comes at him, swinging a rolled-up towel, whipping it at Cuppas' pasty flesh with cracks that echo on the concrete walls. Some boys run over, grab Cuppas by his arms and pin him to the spot. The P gets stuck in. Cuppas writhes as the towel goes back and forth. Everyone's laughing, absolutely cacking themselves.

‘Hit his boobs!' someone is yelling. ‘Go for his pink bits!'

Cuppas squirms, twists one hand free and feebly tries to pull on his shirt, but each time he tries, The P strikes at his tits. There are hoots of laughter. Cuppas swears and starts to sob.

My back's still hurting so I don't mind seeing him cop it. I edge closer to the action, but as I near the group, an arm grabs me and drags me in. It's Steve, The P's best mate.

‘You want a go, Sticks?' he yells above the laughter.

I'm not so sure, but everyone is nodding. Someone else pushes me even closer.

‘Yeah, c'mon, Sticks,' The P says in between swings. ‘Give him something back for that elbow!'

‘Yeah, c'mon Sticks. Stick it to him!' another guy yells.

The P shoves the towel into my palm. I look at Cuppas, and think about the pain in my back. Then a chant starts: ‘Sticks! Sticks! Sticks!'

Maybe just one crack.

Cuppas screws his face at me as I grip the towel. ‘You're a poofter, Sticks,' he says and spits on me. His saliva runs down the side of my neck. My body goes tense. Then he says, ‘You faggot.'

I go berserk. Holding the towel with both hands, I don't care where I get him. I go for his legs, his stomach, his boobs, his face. As the yelling gets louder, I go harder and Cuppas starts bawling and screaming. The cracking towel splits the air, the sound reverberates. He writhes. The boys struggle to hold him back. Then I start laughing and tormenting him. ‘Where next, Cuppas, where next?' And I line up pieces of flesh that haven't been hit. I get his neck, his cheek, his chest. But as I raise my hand slowly, ready to strike his left tit, my arm is almost pulled out of its socket.

‘Get off him, Jack!' a voice roars. I turn and drop the towel. It's Dad.

‘Stand back!' he thunders in his best military voice. ‘All of you!' Everyone scuttles, except for me and Cuppas.

Dad looks at Cuppas, whose lips are still quivering. ‘What's your name?' he says.

‘Daryl,' he sobs.

‘Sit down, Daryl.'

Cuppas sits, red-eyed. He rocks from side to side, examining the welts on the back of his legs, touching them, checking his fingers for blood.

Dad stands, his jaw thrust forward. I can see the white around his pupils. He sneers at me. ‘One hundred,' he says.

I roll my eyes. This is pathetic. ‘Dad—'

‘One hundred!' Spit flies.

I crouch, then drop to my hands and knees on the wet, muddy concrete.

‘Stretch out your legs,' he says.

I lock my knees, my body straight like a broomstick. I bend my arms.

‘Lower,' he says.

I keep going until my nose is about a centimetre above the floor.

‘Keep going.'

It dips into the water full of dirt and toe-jam.

‘One,' Dad says.

I do another.

‘Two.' This time a few voices join in. By the time I get to ten the whole team is in chorus, getting louder with each count.

‘Twenty!'

So far it's easy. I do twenty all the time in my bedroom.

‘Thirty!'

Still going good. I'll prove him something.

‘Forty.'

I grin when my nose dips into the mud again.

‘Forty-five.'

But this time I struggle. Panting above the mud, my arms sting, my stomach sags.

‘Straight back!' Dad commands.

I grit my teeth and push up again, watching his shoes out of the corner of my eye.

‘Daryl,' I hear him say. ‘Come here.'

I do another as Cuppas stands beside me.

‘Place a hand between his shoulderblades. That's it,' Dad says.

It feels like another fifty kilos on my back. I groan and do two more.

‘Forty-nine.'

But it's only a spattering of voices, now.