Bro Read online

  Jarrod eyeballs me. He steps into my space and stands over me. The vein on his forehead pulsates and his top lip is pulled back like a snarling dog before an attack. He’s scary.

  ‘Listen, bro,’ he says, through a clenched jaw. ‘DON’T KNOCK MY FIGHT CLUB! GET ME, LEB?’

  The roar in his voice could have stripped me naked. I’m frozen, thinking he’s going to knock me out cold any second. But Zac steps between me and Jarrod. Coolly. Bravely. How can he be so daring? Jarrod is a beast! Zac is like a kitten next to him.

  He looks up at Jarrod. ‘Relax, bro,’ he says, placing his hand on Jarrod’s chest. ‘Romes is just freaking out, that’s all. It’s me you really want. And we’re on next week, so save it.’

  Jarrod pauses, his face hard and unmoving as he flicks his gaze from me to Zac and then back again. Finally he gives a half-hearted nod and shuffles a few paces back.

  I breathe.

  Everybody breathes.

  ‘Okay,’ Zac says, ‘it’s settled. Just take care of this betting Dano’s got going, all right?’

  ‘You tell your bro to watch his mouth, Zac,’ Jarrod says evenly, ‘and then I’ll take care of Dano.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ whispers Diz. ‘Not if we see him first.’

  30

  The toilets at our train station stink. They’re so bad you have to hold your breath sometimes. I hate using them, but I’m busting to pee. And I drag poor Diz with me.

  Two Rez follow, Jeremy and some guy I don’t know. He must be new because his uniform isn’t faded or ripped or missing any buttons.

  ‘Romes, you gonna smash that Skip tomorrow or what?’ the new Rez says.

  Diz and I glance at each other. This kid knows my name. He’s new to our school, but already he knows about me and Palmer? I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s with Jeremy, frontman for the Rez. And I know they’re pumped about the fight. It’s always more exciting when others do the fighting.

  Sick of talking about the fight, I ignore the new Rez. I turn my back and unzip my pants.

  ‘Romes?’ he insists, tapping my shoulder. ‘I’m talking to you. Are you taking Palmer down or what?’

  ‘Listen,’ snaps Diz, slapping the kid’s hand away. ‘The bloke’s trying to take a piss. You wanna hold his dick for him?’

  ‘Relax, Diz,’ Jeremy cuts in. ‘He’s just being friendly.’

  I zip up my pants and spin around to face the Rez. ‘What are you hassling me for, bro?’

  ‘I saw you fighting him at school,’ he explains, smiling broadly.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So maybe me and you can do a round after this.’

  ‘Listen, if you wanna fight, go see Jarrod. I’m not into fight club. I’m just fighting Palmer to settle a score, that’s all.’

  ‘But everyone’s coming to watch.’

  ‘It’s not a monkey show, you idiot!’ Diz says.

  The new Rez laughs. ‘Good one, Diz. Hey, d’you want me to show you some karate moves, Romes?’

  He coos and takes a karate stance. He pretends to whip out a pair of nunchaku and thrash them in the air.

  ‘All right, Quang.’ Jeremy steps in and grabs his hands. ‘Listen, I got my money on you, Romes,’ he tells us. ‘Don’t let me down tomorrow, will you?’

  ‘Is Dano still taking bets?’

  ‘Dano? Don’t be stupid. He’s not smart enough. Jarrod’s the bookie.’

  Diz and I look at each other. Talk about pulling a shifty. It was Jarrod the whole time? What a dog.

  ‘Listen,’ Diz says. ‘He’s not fighting to make you rich, Jeremy, so get lost and leave us alone.’

  Jeremy laughs. ‘I’m not looking to get rich from this. I just don’t wanna lose the five bucks I put down, yeah?’

  ‘Me either,’ Quang pipes in, grinning. ‘I got five bucks on you too.’

  ‘Go hard, Romes,’ Jeremy says, leaving. Quang trails behind him, waving like a small kid. They didn’t even pee.

  ‘Romes, my man!’ Paul Khouri swaggers past them and into the toilet block. ‘We smashing those Skips tomorrow or what?’ he says, shadow-boxing.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, we’re smashing them,’ I say, rolling my eyes as Diz and I try to pass. But Khouri blocks us.

  ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I got six of my cousins coming tomorrow.’

  ‘What for?’ Diz says. ‘It’s not a barbecue, bro.’

  ‘It could be – after we’ve smashed them,’ he cackles and claps. ‘But seriously, you’re representing all Lebs tomorrow, Romes. So don’t let us down, all right?’

  ‘Okay, Khouri, you’re a hero. Now move, will you?’ Diz grabs my arm and we push past Khouri to the fresh air outside.

  ‘I’m over this, bro,’ I say.

  ‘I know. Me too.’

  ‘It’s getting stupid. I don’t wanna represent anyone. I’m settling a score, that’s it.’

  The thought gives me a shiver. What am I representing? Everyone knows I’m half-Australian. When I was little I used to say that I was Australian when people asked, but no-one bought it. They always followed with, ‘Yeah, but what are you really?’

  Mr McDougal once told me during social science that if I was born in Australia and lived in Australia then that made me Australian. So I asked him if that meant that if I was born in China and lived in China, I’d be Chinese? Even if I don’t look Chinese?

  ‘Well … I suppose if … well, I’m not sure, Romeo,’ he’d said.

  Okay, I added, what if I was born in Australia but lived like a Leb? You know, ate Leb, acted Leb?

  ‘Err … yes, well … that’s …’

  I had another question. ‘They get harder, sir,’ I’d joked. You could joke with Mr McDougal. ‘What if I was born in Australia, had an Australian mother, a Lebanese father and lived like an Arab at home – spoke some Arabic, ate tabouli and hommus – but lived like an Ozzie outside the home – spoke Australian, ate meat pies and Vegemite sandwiches?’

  I honestly hoped he could tell me the answer.

  ‘Well … yes, you’d be Australian, with Lebanese heritage.’ He paused, scratched his chin and thought about it. ‘Maybe it’s a question of feeling like you belong, Romeo.’

  Hmmm. Maybe McDougal was onto something.

  31

  It’s fight day. I can’t stop yawning, I’m so tired from not having enough sleep. My head aches. And no matter how much water I drink from the bubblers, my mouth stays dry. Everyone at school is pumped. They’re getting around like it’s New Year’s Eve, cheerful and festive. It seems like I’m the only one who feels crap. And Diz is the only one who knows I feel crap.

  Biology is boring as usual. Mrs Bankovic is boring as usual. We’re still doing frog copulation. I still don’t get why we have to study how frogs get it on.

  ‘Romeo,’ she calls.

  Here we go.

  ‘Yeah, miss?’

  ‘That’s yessss, miss,’ she says, lingering on the ‘s’ like a hissing snake.

  ‘Sorry. Yes, miss,’ I repeat. It’s so tempting to mimic her. But I know better. Maybe I’ll do it on the last day of school, when I tell her she was a horrible teacher who made my life hell in class.

  ‘Can you tell us what the male frog does to attract the female frog?’ she asks.

  Tell us? Does she think the class is on her side?

  ‘Ummm …’

  ‘I don’t believe ummm is an answer. It’s a sound made during meditation, which I’m sure you know nothing about.’ She snickers, licking her lips.

  Well, you’re wrong, you old witch! I do know that because Diz told me about it once.

  ‘He … ahhh …’

  ‘Yes, come on, out with it.’

  Damn, I wish I knew. But even if I get it right, she’ll probably find something else to hammer me with.

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ she says.

  Diz carefully hunches over the textbook as he slides it closer to me and points to the answer. I scratch the back of my neck, directing my head downward to see the sentence.
r />   ‘If you don’t know,’ she says, leaning back against her desk and folding her arms, ‘just say so.’

  ‘He croaks,’ I call. ‘And he uses his vocal sacs to do it.’

  Got her!

  She’s speechless. I swear her eyes are emitting fire. Her face has gone red. She lost. I won.

  ‘Moving on,’ she says finally. ‘I want everyone to take out their exercise books and copy from the board.’

  Sore loser!

  ‘Good work, bro,’ Diz whispers, patting my back.

  ‘You too,’ I say, dicing him. ‘I would’ve died if she gave me another detention, especially today before the fight. It would’ve been too much for me,’ I add, checking my vibrating phone.

  It’s Nat.

  Dad? What would Dad be doing at school? Paralysis. It starts in my thighs, moves down to my feet. He’s here because Teta is dead. It has to be that. Unless Nat got it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Dad.

  Diz elbows me. ‘Your face’s gone white, bro. Who was that?’

  ‘Nat. Reckons she saw Dad.’

  ‘Here? What would he be doing here? Your teta all right?’

  Diz is remembering the last time Dad showed up unexpectedly, just like I am. It’s human nature, I suppose, to think the worst. We shouldn’t. I mean, we might have won lotto. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe Dad’s here to tell me we’re millionaires and I’ll be getting a Subaru WRX when I get my P-plates. Diz would love that. We could go on a driving holiday. We’ve always talked about taking off one day, seeing the world, meeting new people.

  I message back.

  But I’m not. I send Nat another message telling her all is good. I don’t want to worry her because you never know, maybe we did win lotto. In which case, I’d want to surprise everyone.

  The loudspeaker screeches: ‘ROMEO MAKHLOUF, PLEASE COME TO THE OFFICE. ROMEO MAKHLOUF.’

  ‘No surprise there,’ Mrs Bankovic mutters. ‘What have you done now, Romeo?’

  Ignore her, ignore her. She’s a witch, ignore her.

  ‘Can I go?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, go,’ she says, flicking her hand like she’s sweeping away filth. She turns back to the board and continues writing.

  ‘Want me to come?’ Diz asks.

  ‘Nah, it’s all good,’ I say, gathering my things.

  ‘Sure?’

  I nod. Leave quickly.

  •

  I glance at the chairs.

  Empty.

  The secretary looks up from her desk. ‘That’s twice this week, Romeo.’

  I wonder if she keeps tabs on every kid that’s called up. Maybe she gossips about us in the staffroom.

  ‘Brother David and Mr Gibson want to see you.’

  Both of them? This is going to be bad news, for sure.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say and start walking towards Brother David’s office.

  ‘That way, Romeo,’ she calls, pointing in the opposite direction. ‘It’s in the meeting room. And ah … heads up, buddy. Your dad’s in there too.’

  I pause and think about how nice she is for preparing me. Maybe she isn’t such a gossip after all.

  ‘Ummm … thanks,’ I say.

  She winks.

  •

  I knock on the door lightly. Nervously.

  ‘Come in,’ I hear Brother David call.

  I enter the room and smell cigarettes straight away. My dad reeks of them even when he’s not puffing on one. Mr Gibson, Brother David and Dad (in his dirty work clothes – so embarrassing) are sitting at a round table. There’s one empty chair between Dad and Mr Gibson. For me.

  ‘Nice to see you, Romeo. Sit down, sit down,’ Mr Gibson says in a kindly voice, motioning me to sit. Teachers are always extra nice when your parents are around. They act happy and friendly. Fake friendly.

  ‘Everything okay, Dad?’ I say.

  He shrugs. ‘You tell me.’

  Okay. Not a good tone. Clearly Teta is fine. But I’m in trouble. I sink into my chair and gnaw the inside of my cheek.

  ‘Romeo.’ Brother David smiles. Grins, actually. I notice a bit of food between his teeth. ‘We’ve asked your father here today because of your involvement in fight club.’

  Crap.

  ‘I understand Mr Gibson has already had a word with you about this?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and I told him I wasn’t running any fight club.’ Under the table my knee starts bouncing.

  Mr Gibson leans forward, places his elbows on the table and interlocks his fingers. ‘Yes, Romeo. But you also wouldn’t give me any names.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything. Come on, sir. You can’t be serious?’

  ‘I gave you an opportunity to do the right thing.’

  ‘You want me to dob.’

  ‘Romeo,’ Brother David cuts in, ‘we cannot stress enough how dangerous a fight club is. Your father supports our concerns.’

  ‘I know, sir, but –’

  ‘Let me finish, Romeo,’ he says, holding his hand up to quieten me. ‘As I explained to your father earlier, we will not tolerate a fight club. This is a very serious matter. It’s immediate expulsion.’

  ‘It’s …?’

  ‘Expulsion. Yes. You would be expelled, Romeo.’

  The room is hot suddenly. My tie feels too tight around my neck. I’m desperate to loosen it but I know that will give away my nerves. Am I taking the rap here? I mean, can they actually pin this on me?

  I turn to my father. ‘Dad, I swear, I didn’t start any fight club. I’ve already told them this.’

  ‘Yes, however –’ Mr Gibson jumps in, but Dad holds his hand up, cutting him off.

  ‘Wait. Please, Mr Gibson, let me ask my son,’ he says. I’m shocked. Dad’s never stuck up for me before. He turns towards me and looks me in the eye. ‘Romeo, are you running a fight club?’

  My mind ticks. I’m trying to get a grip on my answer. Friggin’ Zac! Why did he have to get me involved in fight club? But I remind myself it’s only one fight. A score settler. I’m not the one who’s running it. That’s on Jarrod.

  ‘No, Dad, I am not running a fight club,’ I say, repeating his words carefully.

  ‘Okay. I believe you.’ He turns back to face Brother David. ‘I believe him,’ he says, shrugging. ‘If you have proof that my son is lying, then of course you do whatever you have to. But you can’t blame him because he has been in one fight. Or maybe two. I don’t know. I didn’t hear about this other one you say he was in. But I believe him, 100 per cent.’

  This is a moment for our family history book. It’s rare for Dad to back me up. I want to dice him – hug him even. But the guilt is getting to me. I might not be running fight club, but I’m in it. I’m involved.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Mr Gibson shaking his head. He’s not buying it.

  ‘Okay, Mr Makhlouf,’ Brother David says to Dad, standing and adjusting his white robe. ‘I’d like to contact you again if you don’t mind, after we’ve looked further into this matter. We just wanted you to be aware of our findings so far. And we do appreciate that you came in today.’

  ‘Please do,’ says Dad, also standing and extending a handshake (which makes me cringe because I spot dry cement on his fingers). ‘And please call me Sam.’

  ‘Sir, can I walk Dad back to his car?’ I ask.

  Brother David looks at his watch. ‘Yes, by all means, Romeo. The bell is about to go for recess anyway.’

  •

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say as we walk through the yard. ‘You hammered them in there.’

  Dad stops and looks at me with narrowed eyes. He grabs the sleeve of my shirt. ‘If I find out you’re involved in a fight club, I will kill you!’

  ‘What the hell, Dad? I don’t get it.’

  ‘You don’t get it?’ he mocks. ‘Is your brain on holiday?’

  ‘But –’

  ‘What did you expect me to do in there? I get called at work. You embarrassed me. You embarrassed our family. I’m telling you right now, if I find out you’re part of this fi
ght club business, I will kill you. Do you hear me, Romeo? I will kill you,’ he repeats with gritted teeth.

  He slaps the side of my head and marches off.

  So much for backing me up. Ripping out my guts is more like it. That’s fine. I’m used to it. Everybody seems to want to beat up on me anyway.

  32

  Durrum, durrum, durrum, durrum.

  The final bell to a crappy day. And the day’s not even close to being over.

  My stomach lurches. My body’s never felt so heavy.

  ‘Thank you, boys,’ Miss Fletcher says. ‘Excellent work today. Have a good weekend and I’ll see you all on Monday.’

  Boys all around me pack up their things and leave as she speaks. I take my time. Click my pens. Straighten my books. Flick through my school diary. Zip up my pencil case. Unzip it. Zip it closed again. I keep doing this until the room is empty. Even Miss Fletcher has left. Diz lingers with me. He’s an impatient person and hates waiting, but he knows I’m nervous and can see I’m scared. No matter how tough I think I am, right now I’m packin’ it.

  ‘Okay,’ I finally say, inhaling a deep breath. ‘Ready?’

  Diz nods. Shrugs. ‘Whenever you are, bro.’

  The hallway bustles with boys. I get a slap on the back, a punch on the arm. I’m wished good luck. One Leb kid says he’s been praying for me all week. An Ozzie walks by, sniggers and swears at me under his breath. Another calls my name. When I turn, he makes a fist, punches the palm of his other hand, then grins as he mouths the words ‘you’re a goner’.

  ‘Come here and say that,’ Diz calls out to him. But the kid quickens his pace, disappears around the corner. ‘See, Ozzies are all talk. They’ve got no balls.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not sure I have either.’

  ‘Bro, you’ve got huge balls.’

  ‘If I get busted, Dad’s gonna kill me,’ I say, stacking books in my locker.

  ‘Don’t be a drama queen.’

  ‘You didn’t see his face, Diz. I swear, he’s losing the plot,’ I say, slipping off my blazer and shoving it in my locker along with my tie and jumper.