I’m too old to be scared.
Richard cared about his stupid hat today, that’s why he dobbed on me to Livers. First day of high school and he couldn’t take a joke. He cared about his pretty face too, before I hit him. That taught him. He only cried so the girls would feel sorry for him.
No one ever feels sorry for me.
Not that I care.
I walk home the long way, up the hill and around the top of the quarry. Not because I’m afraid of going home. That’s stupid. I’m just not in a rush.
It’s Thursday, so I know what I’m in for.
The only good thing about Thursday is there might be something to eat for breakfast tomorrow. Dad buys pizza every Thursday night. He eats it after I’ve gone to bed. Sometimes there are leftovers.
But you won’t see me upset about it.
I don’t care.
At the top of the quarry I can see old mates house, tucked in behind a ragged hedge and a leaning gum. He’s one to stay away from, that’s what Mum says.
The other kids are scared of him, but I just laugh. He lives by himself and never talks to anyone. He’s got this big mouth and white frizzy hair that makes him look like one of those old laughing clown masks you see at the regatta.
If I find the right-sized rock, I can usually make it from here to his tin roof. It makes a loud bang. I can get three or four rocks off before I hear him yell.
“Get out of here!”
I run away laughing, the sound of it sharp in my throat.
What a loser.
The road curves and drops, and then I can see our street. All the houses are the same. Small brown brick boxes with low diamond-mesh fences out front that I can jump with one hand. Our place is on the corner. Mum likes it because she can see who’s coming and going. She sits near the window and tells Dad who visited who and which cars drive past, like she’s getting paid for it.
My bedroom is on the corner too.
I hate the corner.
Every night my room lights up when a car turns down the street, headlights cutting across the curtains like a searchlight.
In homeroom today, a Year Ten kid said I lived in “the project.”
Dad’s ute is in the driveway when I get home.
He’s home early.
I slow down as I reach the front gate. Some days you can feel the air in a house before you even go inside. Like the house is holding its breath. Like the walls are listening.
I let myself in quietly.
Dad is on the couch with Mum, watching something on the new television he “found” a few weeks back. He sits with his knees apart like he owns the whole room. There are bottles on the floor next to his side of the couch. Mum’s beer is in a glass on the coffee table because she thinks that’s what classy people do.
I stand in the doorway just long enough to be seen and not long enough to be noticed.
It’s a guessing game in this house. Say hello and get in trouble for interrupting. Don’t say hello and get in trouble for being rude.
Most of the time, the safest choice is to disappear.
I go straight to my room. I close the door gently so it doesn’t squeak. I slip my bag under the bed. Then I lie down on the floor next to my puzzle.
It’s not a kid puzzle, not the ones from the school library that take ten minutes and have puppies on them. The box says five hundred pieces. It’s hard.
I’ve never finished it.
It takes me more than a week to get anywhere, and Dad usually pulls it to pieces on Thursday.
He says puzzles are time wasters. He says time should be spent doing something useful. Like mowing the lawn. Like learning a trade. Like “toughening up.”
I’m searching for a dark edge piece when Mum and Dad start yelling.
It doesn’t take long.
Hopefully the school hasn’t called. We don’t have a landline anymore, just Mum’s mobile. I never told the school our number changed. If Mr Livers can’t ring, he can’t blab about what I did to Richard.
Mr Livers. What a loser.
Dad can’t stand him. Mum says he’s “not in it for the kids.” He came from the mainland last year and always calls Tasmania “the little island” like it’s something embarrassing. Like we’re stuck.
“If you don’t like it here, go back to where you came from,” Dad says whenever his name comes up.
I’ve said it too, once or twice, because in this house you learn what words get you a nod and what words get you a slap.
The yelling gets louder. Even through my door I can hear everything. Mum isn’t scared of Dad. She says anything to him. She pushes and pushes like she’s trying to prove she can’t be broken.
Dad still teaches her a lesson.
I sit very still, listening, like if I don’t move I won’t become part of it.
Footsteps cross the hallway. He’s coming.
I have time to think: Don’t flinch. It always makes it worse when you flinch. Dad says flinching is disrespectful.
Then the door swings open.
The thud of his boots on my floor. The smell of beer and sweat. He’s deciding where to hit first.
It’s quick tonight.
Afterwards I lie on my bed, trying to work out if the throbbing is in my shoulder or my hand. My legs feel okay as long as I don’t stand. I roll onto my side and stare at the puzzle pieces scattered across the carpet like a storm went through them. Some pieces are still stuck together.
I almost smile.
Then I hear Mum crying.
Not loud. Just small, broken sounds she tries to hide.
After a while my door squeaks open. Mum stands there with her eyes puffy and her mouth tight like she swallowed something sharp. She doesn’t come all the way in.
“You alright?” she whispers.
I shrug, because shrugging is safer than answering.
Mum nods like she understands, even though she doesn’t. Then she closes the door again.
I look at the lid of my puzzle box, the picture printed on it.
It’s an island. I don’t know where. It doesn’t have a name. It’s the kind of island people go to in movies where nothing bad happens. A small crescent of sand surrounded by water, palm trees leaning like they’re relaxed, the ocean bright and clean.
I trace the shoreline with my finger.
Anywhere would be better than here.
I get up eventually and make my own dinner because Mum won’t. She drinks more than she eats. She sits back on the couch like nothing happened, talking into her phone to Sheryl down the road. Complaining about the new family next door.
“They’ve moved into that place,” Mum says. “Kids everywhere. Don’t even know if they speak English.”
Dad said things when he first heard too. He said they should go back where they came from or be locked up in Pointville. Flamin’ refugees, he called them, like it was a disease.
I don’t care who lives next door as long as they mind their own business.
I make a sandwich: two pieces of white bread and whatever’s left of the tomato sauce. I cut it corner to corner twice, making four triangles, because triangles feel like proper food.
My hands are still shaking.
Friday morning, the television is still on when I wake up. Dad must’ve fallen asleep on the couch. There are a few slices of pizza on the bench. I grab them and sneak out.
Mum is on the front steps with a durry, smoke curling around her face. She pulls up my sleeves and looks at the marks that have risen darker overnight.
“Don’t take your jumper off today,” she says.
I nod and run down the steps. One hand on the fence, and I vault it easily. I glance back. Mum is still watching. I wave. Mum waves back like she’s trying to convince herself she’s still a good one.
At school, homeroom is noisy and bright. Kids are taller here than they were last year. The ceiling seems higher. Everything feels new and sharp.
My seat is taken.
A new kid sits where I sat yesterday, facing the front, his shoulders stiff, bouncing one knee under the desk like he’s got a motor inside him. His uniform pants are too short for his legs. He looks like he grew overnight.
I recognise him.
He lives next door.
People at home don’t call him by his name. Dad doesn’t even try. Mum says “the refugee family.” Sheryl says “those people.”
I don’t know what to call him, so I call him what everyone else calls him, because it’s easier.
“Hey,” I say, loud enough for the older kids to hear. “You in my seat.”
He turns his head slightly, looking at me. His face doesn’t look happy or sad. Like a door closed from the inside.
“Move,” I say.
Annabelle leans forward and butts in. “We don’t have designated seats,” she says in her teacher’s voice. “Don’t be mean.”
I ignore her. She’s dead wood.
The new kid stands without a word. He gathers his diary and pencil case. He walks to a spare desk near Annabelle and sits down. He doesn’t look back at me.
Typical.
I sit down in my seat like I won something.
But my stomach feels weird, like I ate too fast.
The day drags. Teachers talk. Kids talk. The new kid barely speaks. When the roll gets called, he answers quietly, his name soft and hard to catch. The teacher repeats it wrong. He doesn’t correct her.
After school I take the long way again, partly out of habit, partly because I don’t want to get home early.
I pass the old man’s place. Today he’s outside, standing near his front step like he was waiting. He’s thinner than I remember. His hair is a white explosion.
He sees me and points.
“You!” he yells. “I know it’s you!”
I pick up a rock anyway and throw it onto his roof. The bang echoes. He roars something I can’t hear properly.
I run laughing, but it doesn’t feel as funny today.
When I get closer to my street, I see the new kid walking along the footpath. He runs his hand along the top of my fence as he passes, fingers light on the metal, like he’s testing the world.
“Get your mitts off my fence!” I shout, running across the road.
He freezes. He looks at me, startled, then keeps walking faster, cutting into his driveway next door. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tell me to rack off. He doesn’t call me a name.
Some people just don’t know how to stand up for themselves.
Inside, Mum is on the couch watching TV like the day is normal. I go straight to my room and close the door.
I pull out my puzzle. I try to fit pieces together, but my fingers won’t settle. I collect all the blue pieces and spread them out. The water is the hardest part. Blue.
Dad’s ute pulls in.
The front door bangs.
He starts yelling at Mum straight away. Asking if I’m home.
I shove the puzzle under the desk and start unpacking my school bag. Dad storms in before I finish pretending.
He doesn’t wait tonight.
The first hit lands before I can speak. My head rings. I drop to the floor, arms up, trying to protect my face. He grabs my shoulder and yanks me upright then throws me back down.
“Thieving my pizza,” he spits.
Mum’s voice rises from the other room. “Don’t hit him on the back of the head!”
Dad forgets when he’s angry.
“Think you can just hit anyone at school and I won’t find out?” he says.
He hits until his breathing changes, until he’s more tired than furious. Then he looks around my room for something to break, because breaking things is another way to hurt me.
His gaze lands on my desk.
He bends down and drags out the puzzle.
“Puzzles?” he says, holding the box like it’s proof I’m defective. “What a loser.”
He tips the pieces into his hands and lets them fall, a hard rain of cardboard onto the floor. Then he takes the box, the pieces, the whole thing, and walks out.
I hear the kitchen bin lid clatter. I hear Mum shout. I hear Dad shout back. I hear something slam.
I lie curled up near the corner of the room where the headlights hit at night, breathing shallowly, waiting for the second round.
I sit up.
My puzzle lid is still on the floor. The picture of the island stares up at me like it’s laughing.
I grab it.
I go to the window. I pull up the blinds. I remove the thin piece of timber Mum wedges in the frame to keep it locked. The flyscreen is loose. I slide it out quietly. My hands hurt, but they do what I tell them.
Outside, the backyard is dim. The grass is patchy. The old shed sits in the corner, half-rotted, missing a paling along the fence line.
I slip out.
I close the window behind me.
I move crouched, like an animal. I squeeze through the gap near the shed and wedge myself into the narrow space between our fence and the neighbour’s. Dirt under my knees. Spiderwebs against my hair. The smell of damp timber and wet leaves.
From here, the backyard looks empty if you’re standing at the kitchen window. Dad never checks the back. He never thinks I’m smart enough to hide.
In this space, with fence palings pressed close on both sides, I can pretend I’m on an island.
Sometimes I imagine the fence is the ocean. I imagine Dad standing on the other side, furious and stranded.
Dad can’t swim.
I hear him outside, yelling my name from the front yard.
“Get out here!” he roars. “You’re nothing but dead wood in this house!”
Dead wood.
That’s what he calls me when he wants it to stick.
Mum calls him inside. She gets embarrassed. She worries what the neighbours think. She tells people it sounds worse than it is. Like noise is the only problem. Like the only crime is being overheard.
I pull my knees to my chest. The bruises throb. My breath shakes. I tell myself not to cry. Crying is caring. Caring is trouble.
My body cries anyway.
I hold the puzzle lid like a shield, the picture of the island facing me. Bright water. Clean sand. No yelling. No footsteps.
I stare until the picture blurs.
Then I hear movement on the other side of the fence.
A shadow crosses the top rail. Small fingers grip the paling edge.
I look up.
The new kid is standing on something in his yard so he can see over. He looks down at me in the dirt.
For a second, my whole face burns. Shame hits harder than Dad ever does. I turn my head away and wipe my eyes with my sleeve like it wasn’t happening.
I wait for him to laugh. Or call out. Or run inside and tell his family there’s a weird kid hiding in the dirt next door.
He stays there.
Dad’s voice rises again, closer now, shouting from the side of the house. I freeze. If Dad comes into the backyard, he’ll see the gap by the shed. He’ll see the bent grass.
The new kid lowers his hand. Quietly. Slowly. Like he’s showing me he isn’t going to hurt me.
“It’s okay,” he says.
His accent is faint. His voice is careful, like he learned English from listening more than talking.
“Rack off,” I whisper, because I don’t know what else to say. “Get off my fence.”
I hear Dad’s footsteps on the concrete path. His voice is close enough now that it fills my chest.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m too old to be scared.
A fence paling shifts.
Not on my side.
On his.
I open my eyes and look through the gap at the bottom of the fence. The new kid has moved one of the loose palings in his yard. He’s made a narrow space.
His face appears in the crack, one eye, one cheek, the line of his mouth.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t wave me through like it’s a game. He just holds the paling steady, creating an opening like a door.
Dad’s shouting gets louder. I can hear him in the backyard now, calling my name like it belongs to him.
My hands tighten around the puzzle lid. The island stares back at me, bright and impossible.
For a second I want to stay where I am. This is my place. My gap. My waiting spot.
The fence creaks.
I flip the puzzle lid over and let it fall into the dirt.
I crawl.
