Bro Page 5

  Around us Fobs, Rez, Lebs and Ozzies assemble. Alert. Eyeing each other. Phones recording.

  ‘It had to be you, didn’t it, Romeo? Always making trouble,’ Mrs Bankovic says.

  Huh? What about Palmer? Is he invisible?

  ‘Straight to Mr Gibson’s office. All four of you.’

  I’m confused. Four?

  Behind me, Diz and Smitty stand, breathless.

  13

  Like I said, text travels fast. I’m getting message after message on my phone.

  My fight’s made text headlines. I’ve never been in a big fight. I’ve had heated arguments and small scuffles but never a full-blown punch-up.

  Then I get a message from Stef.

  I lie on my bed, staring at the message and trying to hear the conversation my father’s having on the phone with my teacher, Mr Gibson. But I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. My bedroom is at the front of the house, too far from where the landline is.

  Teta Josephine walks into my bedroom holding the washing basket.

  She scans the room. ‘No dirty clothes?’

  ‘I already put them in the laundry.’

  ‘Good boy,’ she says, placing the basket by the door.

  I love my grandmother. I mean, seriously, she does everything for me. But I miss my mum. And I hate that Dad never talks about her. Teta does sometimes, usually after I’ve received a birthday card from Aunty Trish. She tells me random things, like how Mum wore her hair red even though she was a natural blonde, or how Mum loved reading sexy books – she means romance novels. My favourite bit of random info is about when Dad mowed the shape of a heart in our grass, asked Mum to sit in it, then took a photo. That’s pretty cool. He still has that picture. I’ve seen it in his wallet. Behind my baby photo.

  ‘Why do you leave your shoes here?’ she says, pointing to my sneakers. ‘Maybe I trip.’

  ‘Sorry, Teta. Just kick them under my bed.’

  Teta raises her eyebrows. ‘With the others?’

  I half-smile. She can crack a good one sometimes.

  ‘You all right, habibeh?’ she says, sitting on the edge of my bed. I used to think habibeh was my Arabic name until Dad told me it meant darling. When Teta first moved in with us, I couldn’t really understand what she was saying – Mum and Dad had only ever spoken English at home. Slowly I picked up Arabic and thankfully Teta picked up some English. Now we have a happy middle ground … sort of. I speak English to Teta and she answers in half-English, half-Arabic.

  Teta shifts closer to me. ‘Does something hurt you?’

  ‘No.’

  Ignoring my answer, she fumbles for her thick, square-framed glasses hanging around her neck and slips them on. She grasps my chin and manoeuvres my head, conducting an investigation of my face.

  ‘Teta, please,’ I say, pulling away. ‘I’m okay. It’s all good, don’t worry.’

  ‘But I’m always worried for you,’ she says, hand on her heart. ‘If I don’t worry, who will? You’re my life. I think someone give you the evil eye. They’re jealous of your beautiful face.’

  Here we go. Teta and her superstitions. She believes everything bad that happens to me is because someone has cursed me, given me the ‘evil eye’. Teta makes me wear a chain around my neck that has a gold cross and a little blue ball attached to it. She says the blue ball, with help from the crucifix, protects me from these evil eyes.

  I shake my head. ‘No, Teta. No-one gave me the evil eye.’

  My phone vibrates. It’s Stef again.

  ‘Romeo?’ Teta says, squeezing my arm. ‘No good to fight, habibeh.’

  ‘I know, but I didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘When you grow up you’ll be a very angry man if –’

  Dad calls me from the kitchen, bringing our conversation to a halt. I panic because his voice is firm, but part of me is relieved because I don’t like having serious conversations with Teta. I get worried that I’ll let her down.

  ‘Sorry, Teta, I better see what Dad wants,’ I say, sliding off my bed.

  She nods as she stands and straightens my quilt.

  •

  Dad is sitting at the dining table in our kitchen. He’s rubbing his flushed face.

  ‘Sit,’ he says, exhaling a tired breath.

  I drag out a dining chair and sit opposite him. ‘What did Mr Gibson say?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t answer my question. Instead he stares at me, leans back in his chair and folds his arms.

  ‘Dad, I –’

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ he orders.

  ‘Um … well, he picked a fight with me and …’ I shrug, swallow and force the words out. ‘I couldn’t walk away.’ ‘Oh, you couldn’t walk away,’ he mocks. ‘Were your legs broken?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘But what?’ he roars, slamming his fist on the table and startling the crap out of me. ‘You should have walked away.’

  I did not think Dad would be this angry. He and his brothers got into plenty of fights when they were young. My uncle told me the Makhlouf brothers had a reputation for being tough.

  ‘Dad, the guy was in my face. He said he was gonna dog-shot me if I didn’t fight him.’

  ‘What? Are you being smart with me? What the hell is a dog-shot?!’ he yells, thrusting forward and looking at me like I’d better not have a dumb answer.

  My heart picks up pace and I’m wondering if the truth will be good enough. I explain dog-shot. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.

  ‘Idiots! All of you!’ he says, his red face glaring at me. ‘Suspended for two bloody days! Two days, Romeo.’

  His intense gaze makes me feel small and guilty and I lower my head, unable to look at him.

  ‘Who’s the boy?’ he asks finally.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Tell me his name.’

  ‘Luke Palmer.’

  ‘Australian?’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t fight him because he’s an Ozzie. He picked a fight with me, Dad. Honest.’

  No answer.

  ‘Dad? I’m telling you the truth. He was gonna dog-shot me. What else could I do?’

  Silence.

  ‘Dad, please. Tell me what else I could’ve done.’

  He closes his eyes, inhales through his nose and blows the air noisily out through his mouth. He says nothing more. He doesn’t have to. It’s clear I’ve stressed him, and made him angry. If he has a heart attack it’ll be my fault.

  He gets up. Leaves the room. Leaves the house.

  I’ve got to get out of here too. Home sucks right now.

  14

  Diz lives around the corner from my place in a typical Leb home built by his father and uncle. Two storeys, double brick, arched verandahs and iron rails. No grass, just concrete, hosed every morning by his mother without fail. Even the water restrictions in summer never stopped her. She’d hose it earlier, when the neighbours slept, so she wouldn’t get caught.

  ‘Hi, Aunty,’ I say as Diz’s mother opens the screen door. She isn’t really my aunty. It’s the Arab way. If Diz’s dad had opened the door I’d have called him Uncle. Older people appreciate Arab ways – they expect them. And Diz’s mum is older than most of my mate’s mothers, because Diz is the youngest of the five children in their family.

  ‘Hello, Romeo.’ She kisses both my cheeks. ‘How’s everyone?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  ‘I lit a candle for your mother at church on Sunday, may she rest in peace,’ she says, making the sign of the cross.

  I smile. It’s nice to know Mrs Mansoor lights a candle for Mum. If I went to church every Sunday I probably would too. I don’t like doing it at the school chapel. I did it once and everyone treated me weird, like there was something wrong with me.

  ‘You and Aziz get into trouble at school today?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, trying not to make eye contact.

  ‘This is not good. We have to be friends with everyone,’ she pleads, searching my face for a reaction. ‘Is it finished now?�
�

  ‘Yeah, yeah, for sure. It’s definitely over.’

  ‘Good, come in. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Nah, thanks, I ate already,’ I say, trailing behind her down the long tiled hallway. I catch sight of Diz’s older brother, Tony, sitting in the back room watching TV. I think about walking in and saying hello but I stop short of the doorway. He’ll lecture me about the fight and I’m in no mood for a lecture from Tony. He talks way too much and thinks he has all the answers. I stop at the stairs and grasp the banister, hoping Diz is in his bedroom and not in the backyard.

  ‘Is Diz upstairs, Aunty?’

  ‘Yes, but come and eat first. I’ve made falafel, let me make you a small roll?’

  ‘Nah, really, I’m full. But thanks.’

  ‘Aziz,’ she calls up the stairs as she scoops up a basket of dirty washing sitting on the first step. ‘Aziz, Romeo is here.’

  ‘Come up, Romes,’ I hear Diz shout.

  ‘Get yourself a drink later, Romeo. There’s Coke in the garage fridge, okay?’ Diz’s mum says as she continues down the hallway.

  I climb the stairs two at a time to Diz’s room. I know exactly where it is, of course, second door on the left between the pictures of Saint Charbel – a Lebanese saint – and the Mother Mary holding baby Jesus. I practically live here when Diz isn’t at my house.

  ‘Romes! My man!’

  With his arms open wide, Robbie is standing at the foot of Diz’s bed. I’m stunned. He’s been in Lebanon for a month. I had no idea he was back.

  ‘Robbie! Bro!’ I shout, embracing him tight. ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Wow. How was it?’

  ‘So effin beautiful. You gotta go.’

  I look closely at him. ‘Bro? Did you wax your eyebrows?’

  ‘Yeah, no more monobrow. Looks good, yeah?’ He laughs.

  ‘Heaps better.’ I hug him again. ‘Glad you’re back.’

  ‘So what’s happening? I hear there’s drama.’

  Robbie loves drama. The bigger it is the more excited he gets. He never starts it but somehow he ends up in the middle of it, eager to add to it.

  ‘Heard what Stef did,’ he says, picking up a football and chucking it to me.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say, throwing it back. I pull my vibrating phone out of my jeans pocket and read Stef’s third message.

  I can’t help but wonder if Stef’s worried about Palmer too. Is she messaging him at the same time she’s messaging me? Is he messaging her? The thought upsets me and I kick the bed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Diz asks, sprawled on the bed with his hands behind his head. ‘Who messaged you?’

  ‘Stef.’

  ‘What does she want?’ Robbie groans.

  ‘She wants to know if I’m okay.’ I don’t know if I’m defending her or just explaining her text.

  ‘Like she cares,’ he says, flicking away the thought of her with his hand. ‘Tell her to text Luke Palmer if he’s so special to her.’

  My phone vibrates again. This time I read Stef’s message out loud.

  ‘Don’t reply, Romes,’ Robbie says. ‘She had her chance.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Diz tells Robbie. ‘You know Stef’s a nice chick. This isn’t her fault. It’s that idiot, Palmer.’

  Diz is right. I’m upset because of my hard luck with Stef but it’s not her fault Palmer’s a jerk. I can’t keep rejecting her messages. Then I’d be the jerk. At least she cares enough to text. I reply.

  Diz moves to his dresser to check out his purple eye in the mirror. My face is sore but clean. No cuts. No black eyes.

  I grimace. ‘That looks painful. I didn’t even know you were fighting until we stopped.’

  ‘Had to. Smitty threw a punch at me.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah, he started it.’

  Robbie jumps in. ‘Where was everyone else? Zac, Chris, Ants?’

  ‘They came later. Romes and me were getting something from the canteen. We didn’t know they wanted to fight,’ Diz explains. ‘First Palmer disses Lebs and then he says he’s gonna dog-shot Romes.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘That’s why we took ’em on.’

  Robbie shakes his head. ‘They’re dirty. I’m telling you, they’re dirty.’

  ‘It’s over now anyway,’ I say.

  ‘And we get two days off,’ Diz says, dicing Robbie.

  ‘Listen to this one, will you,’ I say, shoving Diz. ‘We got a two-day suspension, not a two-day holiday.’

  ‘It’s still time off school.’

  ‘Bro, my dad’s gonna make me work with him, trust me, I know. He’s pissed off big time.’

  Robbie heads over to Diz’s computer. ‘It’s gotta be on YouTube. What’ll I search?’

  ‘Try Ozzie versus Leb fight.’

  It comes up straight away. Three hundred and forty-nine hits already. It’s only been four or five hours.

  ‘This is hectic.’ Robbie’s squealing like a kid and bouncing on the chair. ‘It’s better than a boxing match.’

  ‘Whoa! Good punch, Romes,’ Diz says, watching over Robbie’s shoulder.

  ‘Smitty fights like an amateur,’ Robbie laughs. ‘Look at him, his arms are all over the place.’

  ‘Yeah, but look at Romes,’ Diz says. ‘Check you out, bro.’ He laughs and pulls me down by the arm, forcing me to watch.

  It’s weird. I can’t believe it’s me. I look like a nut. My punches are hard and I’m throwing myself at him fearlessly. The veins along my neck are pumping and my face is red with rage.

  ‘Far out, Romes. Look at you go. You’re smashing him,’ Robbie says.

  I am smashing him. At one point I have my arm hooked around his neck, squeezing. I could have caused him some serious damage. My body shudders. Watching the video clip makes me uneasy. I pull myself up and walk away.

  15

  YouTube can make you a hero, or it can expose you as a loser and shame you. Judging by the messages on my phone over the next two days, I’m the hero.

  Palmer’s the one shamed.

  Two days in a row, Dad gets me up super early and I have to spend the next eight hours carrying 20-kilo cement bags, stacking tiles and cleaning out his ute. I get thirty minutes for lunch, but that’s it. I reckon he works me harder than he does on his own just to make sure I get it. And believe me, I do – by the time the two days are over, I don’t ever want to be a tiler.

  •

  I’m almost happy to be back at school on Thursday. I step off the train. It’s been raining on and off all night and I’m careful not to slip. I wouldn’t worry normally but if you’re the school’s new tough guy, people start watching you.

  ‘Romes, you animal,’ Ants calls from across the platform. His infectious grin settles my nerves and the need to catch up kicks in. A lot can happen when you miss two days of school. ‘Where’s Diz, bro?’

  ‘Slept in. He’s getting a lift from his brother later. You seen Zac?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s at school. He and Jarrod are working out new details for their fight.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘School’s getting suss about fight club.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Heaps of us were interviewed but no-one’s saying nothin’. Jarrod’s telling everyone if they dob, they’ll cop it. By the way, Stef’s looking for you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Saw her at the takeaway shop before. She asked if you were all right. As if you wouldn’t be. You showed that Ozzie, bro. You gave it to him good! Boof, boof! Right in the face,’ he says, pretending to box me.

  ‘Did you see it on YouTube?’

  ‘Yeah! Who hasn’t! It was so cool.’ He starts bouncing around, throwing fake punches. Right jabs, left jabs. He looks like a total idiot and I can’t help laughing.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ I say, shoving him. ‘Listen, I’m gonna get something to eat. You coming?’

  ‘Nah, gotta wait for my littl
e brother. He’s catching the later train. I’ll see you at school.’

  I get more praise as I make my way off the platform. Boys dice me, hug me and pat me on the back. Some try to spar with me, others pretend to dodge a punch from me. I’m adored. Idolised. It’s weird. All this because I punched on? No, all this because I punched on with an Ozzie.

  •

  Stef sits with Danni in the back corner of the station’s takeaway shop. She’s watching me as I weave through the maze of metal chairs, probably waiting for me to say hello. I can’t do it. It’s awkward the first time you see a girl after she’s rejected you, especially if you still like her, and especially if you’ve had a punch-up with her ex. Danni notices me. She leans across the table and whispers to Stef. No doubt she’s telling her I’m here. But Stef knows already because she hasn’t taken her eyes off me since I walked in.

  ‘Nat,’ I say, thankfully spotting her at the counter.

  She turns swiftly. ‘Romeo! Oh my God, how are you? I’m just grabbing a muffin for recess. I hate the ones they sell at school. Hang on a sec.’

  She puts the change in her skirt pocket, zips it up, snatches the muffin off the counter and scoops up her schoolbag, launching it onto her back. She’s like a well-tuned robot, organised and focused.

  ‘Do you wanna go?’ she says. ‘It’s really crowded in here.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m just gonna grab a sausage roll.’

  ‘Listen, Romeo,’ she whispers, moving her head closer to mine. ‘Stef’s here.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘She’s looking this way.’

  ‘Nat, please don’t, okay?’

  ‘Fine, I’ll wait for you outside,’ she says.

  I try to pretend Stef isn’t there as I buy my sausage roll. I even hope that she’s left. But the weight of her gaze presses on my back and, as I turn, my eyes are pulled towards the back corner of the shop. My heart melts just like it did when I first met her. I smile, gesture with an upward flick of my head. She smiles too and her shoulders rise and fall as she visibly exhales a long breath.

  ‘You’re a big softy, Romeo,’ Nat says as I step out of the takeaway. ‘I saw that.’