Bro Page 8

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask when we reach the car park. My eyes do a quick scan of the area to make sure it’s empty. I hate how I’ve become fearful.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks, slipping her bag off her shoulders.

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘Don’t pretend, Romeo. I know what happened,’ she says, folding her arms and tilting her head to the side. ‘You were dog-shot by that idiot, Luke.’

  ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Look at your face.’

  I pull my chin in deeper behind my scarf.

  ‘You shouldn’t let him get away with it. Tell the school.’ ‘You’re kidding, right? I can take care of him myself.’ ‘I’m sure you can but –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It might get out of hand. You might get hurt.’

  ‘I’ve taken him on before. In the schoolyard – remember?’

  ‘Okay, but then what?’ she demands.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What happens after you fix him up? Does he fix you up again, and you fix him up again, and again, and again? When does it stop?’

  I shrug even though I get what she’s saying. But I’m expected to strike back. If I don’t, everyone at school will think I’m a wuss. And I’d be an embarrassment to the Lebs. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just drop it. Please?’

  ‘No! You’re not getting what I’m saying!’

  ‘Calm down, will you? I do get you. But I’m stuck, okay? I don’t have a choice.’

  ‘You do have a choice, Romeo.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ I wrestle my bag off my shoulders and fling it across the gravel. ‘If I don’t get even with Palmer, I’ll get hassled, I’ll get picked on. Palmer especially will never let up. No way I’m gonna take that.’

  Stef starts crying but turns away quickly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. I stop my rant, hating myself for upsetting her.

  ‘Please don’t cry, Stef. I …’

  She holds up her palm to stop me speaking, which is probably a good idea seeing as everything I say stresses her, and I don’t know what to say anyway. I wait while she composes herself.

  Now she looks at me with red eyes.

  ‘Stef, you’ve gotta trust me,’ I say gently. ‘I can’t just walk away. Palmer’s expecting me to settle the score. He’s waiting for it. It’ll be worse for me if I don’t.’

  ‘But I’m worried about you. I care about you … a lot.’

  I feel a smile spreading on my face. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You know I do. I don’t want to see you get hurt, especially if it’s my fault.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. Palmer used your break-up as an excuse to pick a fight with me. I’m not saying he didn’t like you or anything. I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s probably not over you, and I don’t blame him. You’re not easy to get over.’

  ‘Neither are you.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Her pretty brown eyes fill with tears again.

  ‘Do you want my sleeve?’ I say, holding up my wrist.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got my own,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘You sure? It’s clean.’

  She nods, sniffing back the tears. ‘Romeo, I’m sorry Luke dog-shot you, and I’m sorry you had to fight him at school too.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Everyone at school is talking. At first they said I was dog for getting with you so soon after breaking up with Luke.’

  ‘You weren’t.’

  ‘But then they said I was dog for dropping you after we got together. And now I’m the biggest bitch because you and Luke had that fight.’

  ‘Don’t worry about them. They don’t know anything. That’s just stupid Dano spreading rumours,’ I say, stepping closer to her. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I wanna be with you.’

  ‘Good, because I wanna be with you too,’ I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her in close. ‘Are we cool then?’

  ‘If you kiss me we are.’

  ‘Do you want me to kiss you?’

  ‘Only if you want to.’

  We laugh, and I cradle her face in my hands, slowly pressing my lips to hers. She goes to hug me but I flinch.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nah, nothing, bit ticklish, that’s all,’ I say, lying about the pain I feel around my armpit. I hold her hands and kiss her again.

  ‘Let’s keep us a secret this time,’ she whispers.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s better. No dramas.’

  I nod, because if keeping it a secret means I can be with her, I’ll do it. As long as she wants this. As long as she wants me. I’m cheering – on the inside, of course.

  23

  An announcement over the loudspeaker orders all year tens to assemble in our hall. This is serious. Otherwise they would’ve made it for lunchtime and not during first period. But everyone’s happy – no class!

  Mr Gibson stands at the front of the stage, fiddling with the microphone. He taps, bends and adjusts it so it’s perfectly positioned. Mr Osprey stands next to him with his hands clasped behind his back and his legs slightly apart. He has a grim look on his face as he studies the students gathering before him. He looks like a lieutenant inspecting his platoon. This is definitely an unplanned meeting, because the electric cord for the microphone is still being dragged across the stage and plugged in by Mr McDougal.

  ‘Okay, boys,’ Mr Gibson says, tapping the microphone. ‘Quiet, please. Find a chair. Quickly. Shhhhh! Quiet, please.’

  Boys migrate into their groups. Lebs sit at the back, the Rez to the side of us. The Fobs are in front of us, and the Ozzies are next to them. Most of the noise stops but the odd chair can still be heard scraping across the timber floor. I can see Luke from where I sit. He’s got his hands behind his head and is chewing on a Chupa Chup stick. He must sense me staring, because he turns my way, smirks and blows me a kiss. My adrenalin pumps. My neck, face and ears are on fire. I want to jump him and smash that smirk off his ugly face.

  ‘Boys, we have recently been made aware of some dangerous behaviour occurring at our school,’ Mr Gibson says in his boring, monotone voice. ‘It is very disappointing to learn of such conduct, and it will not be tolerated. The person or persons,’ he stresses the ‘s’ for dramatic effect, ‘who are responsible will be dealt with accordingly.’

  A random Rez calls across the hall. ‘Get to the point, sir.’

  ‘That’s enough, thank you,’ Mr Gibson says, directing a stern look towards the Rez. ‘Now, the problem I’m referring to is …’

  He lifts his chin as he draws in a deep, exaggerated breath that makes his tie rise. He holds it … and holds it … holds it … I’m thinking, just say it, you goose.

  ‘Fight club,’ he exhales.

  There’s no reaction from the group. No gasp. No murmur. Not even a flinch. This is small news. There’s something bigger now. A Leb has been dog-shot by the Ozzies. That’s news. Fight club? Important to Jarrod, maybe, but no one else.

  ‘Our school will not tolerate a fight club or indeed any type of fighting,’ he adds.

  Ants, who’s sitting behind me and Diz, slaps the back of our necks. It’s a congratulatory slap, for the awesome fight we had in the yard last week. The real one. The fair one. The one that should have been enough.

  ‘We encourage you to come forward if you know anything. Your identity will remain anonymous,’ he says, picking up a small basket by his feet and holding it high for us to see.

  A quiet laugh bursts from Diz’s mouth. ‘The bloke thinks he’s calling a raffle.’

  ‘You will find this basket outside my office,’ Mr Gibson continues. ‘Write any information you have on a piece of paper and place it in the basket.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Diz whispers. ‘And when someone sees you putting it in there? What an idiot.’

  Mr Gibson’s speech is so boring the grade becomes restless. I yawn. Diz slides down in his seat, stretching his legs be
neath the chair in front of him. Zac drops his head and slouches with his arms folded. Robbie activates a game on his phone. Chris trims his fingernails with his teeth. And Ants, well, he hasn’t stopped fidgeting since we sat down.

  We’re all tuning out when Mr Osprey steps in front of the microphone and calls for our concentration. His voice is louder than Mr Gibson’s, and more commanding.

  ‘Boys! Pay attention!’

  He steps back to his spot, glaring at us as he assumes the at-ease position.

  Mr Gibson grabs hold of the microphone. ‘Okay, boys, I think that’s all we need to say. Now, please return to class in an orderly fashion.’

  ‘Thank God!’ I breathe.

  ‘That speech killed me, bro. He is so boring,’ Diz says, springing to his feet. ‘I gotta get out of here.’

  A lot of boys head to their lockers, and others to the toilets. The rest of us hang outside the hall, waiting for the bell to ring. There’s about five minutes left before the first period ends. Teachers don’t seem to mind. They walk past us without saying anything.

  ‘Bro.’ Diz nudges me. ‘Look.’

  Palmer is exiting the hall with his group. There’s a bounce in his step, a swagger to his walk. Jerk. I wish he’d look my way so I could death-stare him. Maybe I’ll give him the evil eye. Look at me. Look at me.

  ‘Hey, Palmer!’ I call, unable to contain my irritation. ‘Who’s the dog now?’

  He turns, points to his ears and shrugs, pretending he can’t hear me. His buddies laugh and slap him on the back like he’s a genius.

  ‘What a dick,’ Diz says.

  Zac steps forward, his narrowed eyes following the Ozzies as they walk away. ‘Don’t worry, bro,’ he says, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s all gonna be taken care of.’

  24

  ‘The score has to be settled soon,’ Zac says.

  There’s about thirty of us huddled in the centre of the schoolyard. Everyone is pushing and shoving, trying to reach the middle, where I’m standing like a rock star dealing with paparazzi. They’re practically climbing on top of one another. The smell of someone’s meat pie makes my mouth water but I can’t get through the mob to buy my lunch from the canteen. They’ve got me surrounded. Diz is by my side. Zac, Ants, Robbie and Chris circle us.

  ‘We should dog-shot all of them, Romes,’ says Robbie. ‘They wanna play dirty? We’ll give ’em dirty.’

  ‘We’re not dogs,’ Ants says, pushing him away. ‘Lebs fight like men not pussies.’

  ‘What’s the big deal here, boys?’ Diz spreads his arms out in protest. ‘We do what we’ve always done. Fight at the station car park. Just pick a time, Romes.’

  I nod because that’s what I’m thinking. Me and Palmer. We settle the score at the car park. And quickly. Today even. Then it’s all over and no-one will hassle me any more.

  ‘No way!’ Zac says. ‘This is bigger than a car park fight. They friggin’ dog-shot Romeo. They all need to cop it. We need to show them they can’t mess with the Lebs.’

  A thunderous ‘YEAH!’ erupts. It’s followed by clapping and cheering and shouts of approval. Most of the group obviously want something big. Something warlike. I just want to end it and move on.

  Chris jumps in. ‘I reckon you should forget the whole thing. Seriously, the guy’s not worth the hassle.’

  ‘Shut up, Chris,’ Zac says, shoving him. ‘Listen up, everyone. I’ve got an idea. I’ve worked it out.’ He holds up his palms to shush the boys. Everyone goes quiet. There’s the odd shuffle, but the boys have stopped yelling and are eyeing Zac curiously. Diz and I glance at each other. He’s got us interested too.

  For about five seconds he holds the crowd. Then he says, ‘Fight club.’

  Excitement explodes and sweeps through the group.

  My mouth drops open. ‘Fight club? Piss off, bro.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he says, looking at me like I’m an idiot for not recognising what a great idea it is.

  Diz shakes his head. ‘Come on, Zac. Fight club’s for show ponies.’

  ‘A fight’s a fight, bro.’

  ‘No way! This fight is for respect.’

  ‘What respect? He was dog-shot!’

  I cut in. ‘Nah, Diz’s right. Listen, Zac –’

  ‘Bro, you listen. If we don’t –’

  But the loudspeaker drowns his voice.

  ‘ATTENTION BOYS. ROMEO MAKHLOUF, PLEASE COME TO THE OFFICE. ROMEO MAKHLOUF.’

  Cheers erupt. Whistling, yelling and chanting resound across the schoolyard. It’s this crazy thing we do. Whenever someone we know is called over the loudspeaker we cheer him on. Applaud him. When Diz was called up once, everyone chanted his name until he arrived at the office. When he reached the doors he turned around and threw his arms up above his head like he’d come first in a marathon. It made us cheer even louder. It was hilarious. Even the teachers on playground duty were laughing.

  Everyone has fun with it but I hate being called up. I get a chill every time. It’s how I found out Mum died. It was a hot Thursday afternoon at primary school. Diz and I were in the library, looking through a really cool dinosaur book. My name was called. I remember my teacher telling me I had to go to the office. I saw Dad sitting on a black lounge in the waiting area. His head was in his hands and when he looked up his eyes were red and watery, his face wet with tears.

  ‘Come here, mate,’ he said, sniffing.

  He pulled me in by my arm and sat me on his knee.

  The school secretary stood behind her desk, watching. One hand was on her chest, the other over her mouth.

  ‘Mate, you know how Mum’s been feeling sick lately.’ No, not really, I remember thinking. I could hear Mum crying … and vomiting sometimes, but everybody kept telling me there was nothing to worry about. Then they’d send me to my room to play with the PlayStation, so I didn’t think it was too serious.

  I nodded anyway.

  ‘Well, she found it really hard to get better.’ He sniffed again. Squeezed my arm hard. It hurt but I didn’t say anything. ‘Mate, Mum’s dead.’ And he coughed out a cry. So did the secretary.

  It was the first time I’d seen Dad cry. And I’ve never seen him cry since, not even at the funeral. It’s like his heart hardened after that moment.

  25

  As soon as I step through the glass doors into the office, the warm air hits me. It’s so cosy I’d fall asleep if I hung out in here too long. I glance at the chairs in the waiting room. Empty. Good sign. No-one’s dead.

  ‘I’m Romeo Makhlouf,’ I tell the secretary behind the desk.

  ‘Mr Gibson would like to see you, Romeo.’

  Mr Gibson’s office is behind the front office but you have to go right around a bunch of other rooms to get to it. I glimpse the staffroom on the way. Wow, it’s messy. And noisy! Teachers are chatting, laughing, sipping coffee and eating hot lunches. I can see the steam rising from their plastic containers. The smell of food wafts through the air, making my stomach rumble. You don’t think of teachers as normal people doing normal things. Just like you never think of your parents having sex – until you realise they must have if you exist.

  ‘Romeo Makhlouf.’

  I hear my name as I pass the staffroom door. A shiver runs up my spine. It’s that voice. I step back and poke my head in the doorway. Teachers are intimidating when there’s a bunch of them. It’s much safer in class. One teacher, thirty kids. Here, I’m one kid, thirty teachers. It reminds me of this scene in a zombie movie I saw. There were around thirty of them, and they’d cornered a kid in a shopping mall late one night. Blood dripped from their mouths, eyeballs hung from their sockets and they walked with stiff legs towards the quivering boy, hungry for his flesh.

  ‘Romeo, you’re Lebanese,’ declares Mrs Bankovic, who’s sitting on a lounge next to Miss Cooper, our religious coordinator. ‘Read this for Miss Cooper.’

  ‘I’m supposed to go see Mr Gibson,’ I tell her.

  She motions for me to come in anyway, and waves a
newspaper at me. A glance at it tells me it’s in Arabic. There’s a picture of Miss Cooper on the front page, smiling. She has her arms around a group of young Arabic-looking children.

  ‘Go on, translate it,’ she says, crossing her legs and taking a sip of her coffee.

  ‘Um, I don’t know how to read Arabic.’

  ‘Are you Lebanese or not?’ She snatches the paper back. ‘Don’t worry, Sue. I’m sure we can find someone to translate it for us.’

  ‘Thank you, Romeo.’ Miss Cooper smiles.

  I look at Mrs Bankovic.

  ‘Off you go then,’ she says, waving me away with her hand.

  This is what I’m talking about. You heard that, right? How can I see myself as Australian when people like Mrs Bankovic tag me as Lebanese? It makes no difference that I was born here or that my mum was Australian. I’m seen as Lebanese. And why would she assume I can read Arabic when I go to an English school? We don’t even have Arabic as an elective. I think about reminding her of this but I rush out before I say anything that might earn me a detention.

  Mr Gibson’s door is wide open when I arrive. He has a small office. A coloured leadlight window stretches across the wall behind him but you’d have to stand on a chair to open it. I wish he would, it’s so stuffy in here. Beneath the window are three boxes of chocolates on a timber shelf. Gifts, no doubt. I can see one of the cards attached reads:

  Dear Mr Gibson,

  You are the coolest teacher ever.

  Best wishes,

  Your favourite year 12 students

  I wonder why he hasn’t taken them home. And I wonder why they think he’s cool. He’s hard on our class, reckons we muck up more than anyone else he’s taught. Maybe he’s right. There’s always a kid from our class in trouble for something.

  ‘How are you, Romeo?’ he says, biting into an overstuffed salad roll. He lays it down beside his coffee mug, chewing vigorously as he dusts the crumbs off his chest.

  ‘Good.’ I shrug, eyeing his lunch.

  ‘Have a seat. And close the door behind you, please.’