Bro Read online

  For you, babe.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  1

  Mrs Bankovic’s voice drives me nuts. I swear I get a headache every time I’m in her class. Not even sitting up the back helps. The loud, whiny sound fills the whole room.

  ‘Once the eggs are released into the water,’ she reads, ‘the male will then shed clouds of spermatozoa over the eggs.’

  Talk about boring. Mrs Bankovic’s lessons are the worst. All she does is read out loud from a textbook. She doesn’t explain anything, just asks a bunch of questions at the end of each chapter.

  ‘Right. Briefly describe frog copulation,’ she says, her beady eyes scanning the room for a victim. ‘Romeo?’

  Crap. Me again? Third time this lesson.

  ‘Um …’ I say, searching my mind for an answer. ‘Did you say copu– copu …?’

  The eggheads at the front drop their heads and snicker.

  ‘Are you trying to be funny, Romeo? Cop-u-la-tion,’ she emphasises, slamming the book on her desk. ‘Is this a joke to you?’

  ‘Nah, miss, honest. I just wasn’t sure what –’

  ‘Then you should’ve taken notes!’ she snaps.

  Ouch. Cut down.

  ‘I don’t have time for this. I won’t put up with your rudeness. Detention after school.’

  ‘But, miss –’

  ‘Enough!’

  ‘Miss, I got footy training.’

  ‘Not any more.’ She smirks.

  I stare at her, freaked out. Is she for real? But she returns my gaze, widening her eyes as she tilts her head to one side and folds her arms. It’s a typical Mrs Bankovic stance, her bring-it-on-if-you-dare look. I’m so tempted to outstare her in front of the whole class.

  But I know what she’s like. If I take her on, she’ll give me another detention. And she’ll make it Saturday morning. That way I’ll miss the game too.

  I roll my eyes but then drop my gaze. After a moment, the class carries on.

  ‘I think she’s talking about the way frogs do it, bro,’ Diz whispers. He’s sitting next to me as usual. ‘Check out the pictures.’ He slides his book over and points to one of the diagrams.

  I groan quietly. ‘She didn’t have to lose her cool.’

  ‘It’s ’coz she hates Lebs. She always picks on us.’

  Diz is a loafer. He lives for fast cars and great hair. He’s just not that interested in school. He’s always saying that life is his teacher. And he believes it. But Diz can afford to. He has a job lined up with his father, in construction. Diz comes from a family of form workers – his dad’s a form worker, his uncle’s a form worker and his brothers are form workers. I think even his grandfather was too, back in Lebanon.

  Sitting next to Diz in class makes me look like I’m not interested in learning either, even though I am … sort of. But he’s my best mate. My bro.

  ‘I can’t believe she gave me detention,’ I grumble.

  ‘Stuff her. Come to footy. Tell her you forgot.’

  ‘Can’t. I’ll get in more trouble.’

  ‘Want me to wait for you?’

  ‘Nah, it’s cool.’

  ‘It’s no biggie. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Nah, all good. I’ll come after.’

  I know Diz is trying to make me feel better. But I can’t let him miss training. He loves footy. We both do. Not because we want to be league players – we’re way too lazy for that. Especially Diz. He can’t even handle PE class – he’s faked more injuries than anyone in our grade. But footy means hanging out with the boys, mucking around, having a laugh. That’s why we’re in Division C. The real players are in Division A. Primary school was the only time we were deadset about football. Back then we wanted the trophies. Now we don’t want anything, or at least that’s how we act.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, hiding it behind my desk. I know what you’re thinking: if I’m going to answer my phone during class then I deserve to be yelled at. Well, I disagree. It’s like this: if Mrs Bankovic doesn’t want to teach me, then why should I bother? She gave up on me before I even started year ten. I’d made the mistake of asking if she could get me into software design and development, which was what I really wanted to do instead of biology. She couldn’t. Classes were full.

  ‘Looks like I’m stuck with you, Romeo,’ she had said with raised brows.

  Didn’t she mean I was stuck with her?

  I slide open my phone. It’s Zac. He should’ve been at school, but a two-day suspension meant he was at home. He’d been caught smoking behind the toilets – again.

  ‘ROMEO MAKHLOUF, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’

  I jump, almost dropping my phone. Diz grabs it and shoves it under his thigh. God, that voice. It sends shock waves through my body.

  ‘Well?’ she demands.

  ‘Nothing, miss.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  I half-shrug.

  ‘Right, move to the front. Sit here where I can keep an eye on you.’ She motions to a spot on the floor beneath the whiteboard.

  ‘You serious, miss?’

  ‘MOVE!’

  Diz cuts in. ‘No offence, miss, but he’s not a pet dog.’

  The class cracks up laughing.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Mrs Bankovic claps her hands once for attention. She narrows her eyes at Diz. ‘One more word and you’ll join him. Now pick up your things, Romeo, and move to the front.’ Her voice is controlled and even, but I swear that swollen vein on the side of her neck wasn’t there a minute ago. Slowly, she slides her hand across the desk and grips the edge. Her knuckles turn white from the pressure. ‘If you don’t –’

  The bell rings. How clichéd is that! Books slam shut, chairs drag and talk erupts, filling the room with noise.

  Diz and I move fast through the crowd. We don’t even glance at Mrs Bankovic. We hurry out of the classroom with our heads down, and bolt up the hallway. Once clear, Diz bursts out laughing.

  ‘She’s gotta be spewing,’ Diz says, catching his breath. ‘You won that round, Romes. I thought she was gonna chuck that desk at you.’

  ‘Me too. I was packin’ it.’

  ‘I swear I nearly lost it.’

  ‘Then you’d be in trouble too.’

  ‘So what, bro?’ he says, grabbing me in a headlock. ‘We’ll take ’em all on together.’

  I pull out of his hold and shove him jokingly. He shoves me back. I punch him in the arm. He slaps me in the head. I go to slap him back but he runs. I chase him. He turns and tackles me. We’re wrestling in the middle of the school corridor, rolling, hissing and laughing hard.

  Since the day we me
t in kindergarten we’ve acted like this. Even if we’re in a crappy mood we do it, only harder. It’s a guy thing. Our mates do it too, but we’re the only ones who’ve been pulled up for ripped shirts.

  ‘Teacher! Teacher!’ I hear someone call.

  Damn! Too soon. I’m winning this one.

  2

  Outside, the yard fills quickly with boys munching on pies, chips, sausage rolls and the latest addition to the canteen menu, lasagne. I buy two lasagnes, one for me and one for Diz. It’s my shout, thanks to a stupid bet I lost about who won the 1979 NRL grand final. I should’ve known better than to challenge Diz. He’s a huge Dragons supporter; of course he knew they’d won that year. He knows all their history.

  I also get him a packet of salt and vinegar chips. They’re his favourite and he’d chuck a mental if I didn’t.

  Diz and I hoe into our food. I haven’t had lasagne in ages, and it tastes good. Teta Josephine, my grandmother, is a great cook, but she only makes Lebanese food for Dad and me at home. It’s great food, don’t get me wrong, but it’s nice to have something different.

  As we eat we head to the centre of the yard. It’s where us Lebs hang, right in the heart of school, where everyone can see us. By everyone, I mean the other three groups. Fobs, Rez and Ozzies. At our school everyone hangs with their own kind, on their own turf.

  If you’re a Fob, you stick to your corner near the lunch tables. Not all Fobs are ‘fresh off the boat’. It’s just what we call Maoris, Samoans, Tongans, Kiwis, any islander with dark skin and a big build. You never want to get into a punch-up with one – they’ll smash you. Playing footy against them is crazy enough. One tackle and I’m off the field, injured.

  Behind the science labs is Rez turf. It’s a word us Lebs came up with. In Arabic rez means rice, and everyone knows Asians eat a lot of rice. It’s lame, I know, but it’s the way we talk. These Rez aren’t the smart Asians, though. They don’t do physics or four-unit maths. No way! These are the nunchaku types, little ninjas with black belts in ninjutsu and karate.

  The Ozzies – or Skips, Convicts, Bogans, take your pick – hang near the canteen area. It’s so they can scab food from everyone. That’s the joke, anyway. They’re a mix of backgrounds. White-skinned boys with hair usually shaved with a number two on the clippers. They don’t like Lebs. And us Lebs don’t like them. No-one really knows why. It’s just understood.

  The middle of the schoolyard belongs to the Lebs. People at school say we’re cocky and that we show off, but I reckon we’re cool. We have one Egyptian – Ash, short for Ashraf – in our group, even though he’s not Lebanese. He’s Middle Eastern, and that makes it okay, know what I’m saying? Anyway, he’s a good bloke.

  We were all probably born in the same local hospital, but your heritage defines you, whether you like it or not.

  ‘Romeo, Diz, ya big Lebs!’ Dane shouts across the playground.

  He’s a shifty bloke, that Fob. Can’t be trusted. Only shows up when he wants something. I hate it that girls love his Kiwi accent.

  ‘What’s up?’ Diz calls back.

  We wait as Dane shambles over to us.

  ‘Where’s Zac?’ he asks. ‘Haven’t seen him around.’

  ‘Suspended,’ I say.

  ‘You get an invite to Danielle’s sixteenth?’ Dane asks.

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  He grins. ‘I got news for you. Stefanie’s gonna be there. I know you’ve got a thing for her.’

  ‘I haven’t got a thing for Stefanie,’ I lie. ‘Anyway, she’s got a boyfriend.’

  ‘Not any more,’ he says, grinning and nudging me with his elbow. ‘Her and Palmer broke up. I hear she’s been asking about you.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I knew it!’ he shouts, stabbing a finger in the air. ‘You do like her!’

  I say nothing. As if I would ever talk to Dane about Stefanie. He’s the biggest rumour junkie at school.

  Diz cuts in. ‘Are you going, Dano?’

  ‘Yeah! Nat’s gonna be there,’ he says, digging his hands into his trouser pockets and shifting his balls. ‘It’s my lucky night.’

  ‘You and Natalie?’ Diz says. ‘You for real?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been talking to her for a while.’ He waits. Looks around. Sniffs. ‘Did Zac get an invite?’

  ‘Course he did.’

  ‘Okay, cool,’ he says, walking off. ‘See you later.’

  Diz and I stare after him, mouths gaping. You never hit on a girl if you know someone else likes her. It’s an unspoken rule. And Dane knows, like everyone at school knows, that Zac and Nat have liked each other since year seven. The problem is, Nat has strict Lebanese parents. They want her to become a lawyer. She isn’t allowed out much and she isn’t allowed to have a boyfriend either. But she and Zac are ‘saved’ for each other. Lucky Christian Boys High is next door to Saint Adele College, where Nat goes.

  ‘Zac’s gonna smash him when he finds out,’ Diz says, tearing open his packet of chips. ‘Did you hear him? He thinks he’s gonna get lucky – with a Leb chick! He’s dreaming.’

  ‘Hey, listen, Diz,’ I say. ‘You reckon it’s true about Stefanie?’

  ‘Who knows with Dano. That Fob’s full of crap half the time. Why?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Bro,’ Diz says, looking at me now. ‘You don’t still like her, do you?’

  I shrug again. Blush a little.

  ‘You do! I thought you were over her.’ He laughs, throwing his arm around me. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t know what she saw in Palmer anyway. The guy’s a wanker.’

  Diz is right. Luke Palmer is a wanker. A real poser. His dad owns some small-time gym. Luke brags about training there all the time. That’s why he has a sixpack. He told me once his dad’s gym wasn’t for people like me. He meant Lebs.

  ‘I think I wanna ask her out,’ I say.

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Well … why not? I chickened out the first time and look what happened.’

  ‘Bro, if she just broke up with Palmer, you’ll be the rebound guy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Trust me, Romes. Chicks need time to get over stuff like that. They like to think about things. I know all about this.’

  I laugh and shove him lightly. Diz always has a theory.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he adds, shoving me back. ‘I saw it on Oprah.’

  That’s another thing Diz lives for – Oprah Winfrey. Even though her show finished years ago, he loves her. He downloads old episodes then sits up in bed, watching them all night. The spiritual ones are his favourite. Diz’s into the mystical, loves anything that gives clues to the meaning of life. His brothers give him heaps about it. They actually get into fist fights with him because they reckon he embarrasses their family when he talks ‘crap about crap’. But Diz doesn’t care. He gives back as good as he gets.

  Nothing much bothers Diz. He’s a joker, and a smart alec most of the time. That’s why there’s a constant grin on his face. It makes him look goofy, but don’t let that fool you. Diz doesn’t take crap from no-one.

  3

  I rock up to classroom E3, the English study space, and sit up the back.

  God, I hate detention. You’re supposed to do homework or study but no-one ever does. Instead you sit and think. Chew your nails. Fidget. Pretend your desk is a drum. Play with the three-day growth on your chin – if you’re lucky enough to have any. My facial hair sucks. I get three-week growths. Diz gets three-minute growths. His is crazy thick.

  Detention is usually a packed house on Fridays but today there are only thirteen of us. Everyone’s slumped in their chairs, bored stupid. One kid is asleep. His head’s hanging over the back of the chair and his hand is cradling his balls. It must be a good dream.

  Mr McDougal is at his desk, marking essays. He scribbles a few words every now and then but mostly he ticks and crosses. I like Mr McDougal. Everyone does. He’s a good teacher, he hardly ever yells, and he’s fair. Once, when he busted Diz cheating in a class exa
m, he didn’t even report him to the principal or give him a week-long detention like most teachers would. Instead, he gave him a long lecture then made him resit the test at lunchtime. He’s also freakishly fit for an old guy. He’s like one of those speed walkers in the Olympics. If you have to go somewhere with him, like the library or the staffroom, you have to jog to keep up. He knows it too, because he says, ‘Pick up your feet,’ then makes that clicking sound. You know the one you make at horses when you want them to move? He cracks me up when he does that.

  ‘Romeo,’ he says, looking up and seeing me staring at him, ‘use this time to do some revision. Your half-yearly exams are coming up.’

  ‘I didn’t get time to bring any work, sir. Had to sort out the paintbrushes for Miss Kent.’

  He wanders over to where I’m sitting. ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do when you finish school? Were you thinking of doing a trade? Construction, perhaps?’

  Why does everyone think if you’re an Arab you’ll work in construction? I wonder if Asians get offended when people think they’ll all be doctors.

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Did you read the careers handbook that was given out earlier this year?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘Anything interest you?’

  ‘Computers, maybe. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Maybe a chat with the careers advisor will help?’

  The classroom door swings open, slamming into the wall behind it and startling everyone in the room. Jarrod stumbles in. Good. Another year ten, someone I know. Not that Jarrod would be my first choice to do detention with – or my second or third – but he’ll do.

  Mr McDougal returns to his desk to check his detention list.

  Jarrod is one of the bigger Fobs. He’s not fat, just built. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and has a boxer’s nose, flat and wide. And talk about bad-tempered: Jarrod’s a real nutjob. He’s popular for his brawls. Loved for his brawls. He’s good at hiding them too. The teachers have only caught him twice this year – so far.

  He peels his schoolbag off his shoulders as he heads over to Mr McDougal with his crumpled detention slip. His face is blotchy and sweating. A cloth is wrapped loosely around his hand and his collar is ripped.