Bro Page 9

  I sit in the chair opposite him, his busy desk between us. There are papers everywhere and more stacked on the floor. Even his message board is covered with memos and pictures. Personal ones of his children, I’m assuming, as well as school stuff like our carnivals. I can’t see a picture of his wife anywhere, though.

  ‘So you’re well?’

  I’m feeling a bit suspicious, actually. ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Is everything going well at school?’

  ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Well, Romeo, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’d like to ask you a simple question. And I’d like for you to give me an honest answer.’ He pauses, looks me straight in the eye. ‘Romeo, are you running a fight club?’

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘You serious, sir?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘No way.’

  ‘You were in a fight last week with Luke Palmer and you’ve turned up to school today with bruising on your face. Coincidence?’

  My hand automatically goes to my jaw and I shift in my seat. Stupid me for taking off my scarf.

  ‘Well?’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How did the bruising occur?’

  I’m thinking. I’m trying to come up with an answer. Dog-shot or not, the school can’t find out I was in another fight. I’m glad Palmer took the video off YouTube, whatever his reasons.

  I clear my throat, swallow. ‘It’s from footy, sir. I copped it a bit on Saturday.’

  Gibson nods. He relaxes back in his chair and drums his fingers on the armrests. He’s too comfortable. It’s a sign he’s got something on me.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, still nodding. ‘It was a home game, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Um …’ Eyes darting, brain ticking. ‘Yeah, it was.’

  ‘Who did you play?’

  He is good. He knows I’m lying. My face is on fire and I’m red for sure. Gibson’s enjoying this. He has his lips pressed together, stifling a laugh.

  ‘Come on, Romeo, out with it.’

  I lower my head. Accept defeat. ‘I don’t know, I …’ But then a thought springs to my mind. ‘I meant footy in the backyard, sir. I wasn’t at our game.’

  Gibson stares at me. His eyes are wide in disbelief. ‘Okay. Very good, Romeo. But we both know what’s going on here,’ he says, leaning forward and straightening the papers on his desk. ‘You do realise how dangerous a fight club is, don’t you? People who get involved in fight clubs always get hurt. There is nothing smart about violence. It has to stop. Do you understand?’

  ‘I get you, sir, but I’m not running a fight club, I swear.’

  ‘But you know who is, right?’

  I lower my eyes and stare at the pile of papers on the floor.

  ‘All right, Romeo. This is what I want you to do.’ He grabs a pen and a pad of pink Post-it notes and passes them to me. ‘Give me a name. If you’re not responsible, as you say, give me the names of those who are. Put it right there in my pencil jar and I’ll pretend to find it after you’ve left. No-one need know it came from you.’

  I stare at the pad of paper. Mr Gibson’s plea is genuine. It’s not like he’s trying to be a hero; he’s actually worried. But he doesn’t get how hard it is for me. The basket outside his office was empty when I passed it, which means no-one’s talking. I don’t want to be the school nark. Jarrod will smash me if I talk. And then there’s Zac. He’s mixed up in it now so I’d be dogging him big time if I said anything.

  ‘Sir, I can’t –’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it, Romeo. You need to do the right thing here.’

  ‘But, sir –’

  ‘I want you to understand something,’ he says, pointing his finger at me, irritated now. ‘I’m giving you an opportunity here. I’m giving you the chance to do something good.’

  I sit still and silent, unable to look him in the eye.

  ‘All right, Romeo,’ he says. ‘Then I can only assume that you are involved in some way – maybe even responsible.’ He holds up his hand to stop me saying anything in response. ‘You leave me no choice, Romeo.’

  26

  Diz waits for me at the end of the ramp outside. He leans against the wall, eating chips and reminding me I’m starving.

  ‘Who wanted to see you?’ he says.

  ‘Gibson. He thinks I’m running fight club,’ I say, reaching out and helping myself to a handful of chips.

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Yeah. I didn’t say anything. Don’t wanna piss off Jarrod.’

  ‘Stuff Jarrod, bro. I’ll smash him if he comes near us. Don’t take the rap for a Fob.’

  ‘And what about Zac? He’s involved now.’

  Diz stops eating. He draws in a deep breath and lets it out in a long sigh, shaking his head.

  ‘What’s up?’ I say.

  ‘You know how Zac’s supposed to be fighting Jarrod this Friday?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, now you’re gonna be fighting instead. You and Palmer.’

  ‘As part of fight club?’

  He screws up his face, nods. ‘Zac spoke to Jarrod and Palmer while you were with Gibson. He’s organised it. It’s done.’

  ‘But it’s my fight, bro. I don’t wanna do it through some stupid fight club. Why would Zac do that?’

  ‘He said the Ozzies broke the rules and that made it Leb business.’

  It’s weird how we all know these rules. They’re unspoken, unwritten, but they exist. For example, you never jump into an organised one-on-one fight, even if your mate is losing. And you never fight a kid with a disability, including glasses – unless he takes them off. The Ozzies dog-shot me after we’d already settled our differences. That’s against the rules too. It’s dirty. Corrupt.

  ‘Here, you want some more chips? Last bits,’ Diz says, holding the bag in front of my face. But my appetite just died and I push the bag away.

  ‘What am I gonna do? I just told Gibson I had nothing to do with Jarrod’s stupid fight club.’

  ‘And you don’t,’ he says, finishing the chips and scrunching up the empty packet. ‘You’re just using it to settle a score. It’s only one fight. Come on, the boys are waiting.’

  He throws his rubbish on the ground.

  ‘That’s slack, bro. Pick it up,’ I say.

  ‘Listen, if we don’t throw rubbish on the ground, the maintenance blokes won’t have a job. I’m just keeping them employed.’

  ‘That’s not true, and you know it.’

  He laughs. Then winks. He does know it.

  27

  ‘Romes is back,’ someone shouts as Diz and I get near.

  ‘Romes,’ Zac says, offering me his fist.

  I dice him half-heartedly.

  ‘Did Diz tell you the plan? It’s all happ–’

  ‘Why’d you do it?’ I yell, cutting him off.

  The boys go quiet. I’ve never raised my voice at Zac before. No-one has. Not seriously anyway.

  Zac stares at me with unblinking eyes. ‘Do what?’

  I step closer to him. My hands curl into fists at my side. ‘Why’d you organise for me to fight Palmer through fight club?’

  He grabs my arm friggin’ hard and yanks me away from the group. He practically drags me about twenty metres away. Diz follows.

  ‘Why are you talking to me like that?’ he asks calmly, like he’s giving me a chance to explain my disloyal outburst.

  ‘Because I’m pissed off at you, bro. Why’d you get me involved in fight club?’

  ‘I did you a favour.’

  ‘What?’ I say, looking at him sharply. ‘Come on, Zac, I told you I didn’t wanna get involved in fight club. I don’t like that crap. And Gibson is on my back now too.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s what you’re worried about? You gotta be kidding me, Romes. Gibson knows nothin’. Listen, you’re gonna fight Palmer anyway, aren’t you?’

  ‘If I have to, yeah. But I’m not doing it for fight club, not for Fob entertainment.’r />
  ‘It’s still a fight, bro!’

  I shake my head as I turn away and fold my arms.

  ‘Listen, Romes,’ he continues, quieter now. ‘This isn’t just about you and Palmer any more. The Ozzies dog-shot a Leb. That’s an insult to all of us. As if we’re gonna let ’em get away with it. Do you think the Rez would let ’em get away with it? Or the Fobs? No way! The score has to be evened. That’s just the way it is. They know it and we know it. And you know it too, bro.’

  Diz steps between us and puts his arms around our shoulders, drawing us in close. ‘Listen, bros,’ he says, nodding and speaking with a deep, mock-serious tone, ‘we gotta stick together, all right? This is our spiritual journey. We’re supposed to learn something from this so we can score points for the next life.’

  Zac pulls away. ‘Get lost, bro. Don’t talk to me about that stuff. It’s creepy.’

  Diz laughs. And I laugh too. Trust Diz to lighten the mood.

  28

  The next few days are boring, the same old lessons and lunchtime games. On Thursday, periods four and five are double maths. I’d rather be in art class. Even English. Discussing some essay would be heaps more interesting than maths.

  I sit and work out the solutions to the problems Miss Fletcher scribbles on the board. As usual Diz copies my answers. After a while I start daydreaming about Stef. I haven’t talked to her for three days, since Monday morning, even though we’ve been texting the whole time. I think about her brown eyes and her lips. I picture her smile and the way she tilts her head when she laughs.

  ‘Bro.’ Diz elbows me. ‘Why’d you stop?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The answer, bro,’ he says, pointing to the problem he’s copied from the board. Diz has neat writing, and he always writes the date in the top right-hand corner of the page and draws a margin down the left-hand side if there isn’t one already. It’s weird for someone who’s not into schoolwork. But Diz has always been fussy about that sort of thing.

  ‘I can’t concentrate,’ I say, chewing the top of my pen. ‘Can’t stop thinking about Stef.’ Even though Stef and I are a secret this time round, of course I’ve told Diz. I tell him everything.

  ‘Don’t get cheesy on me, Romes.’

  ‘But I’m hanging to see her.’

  ‘So go.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Go now, during class. Meet her behind the portables.’

  It’s not a bad idea. Behind the year-seven portables, our school ends and Saint Adele starts. The area is off limits but boys sneak around at lunchtime to check out the girls. I don’t think anyone risks it during class. I’d be starting a new trend.

  ‘Just do it,’ Diz says. ‘If Fletch gets suss I’ll text you. Just give me the answer to the problem before you go.’

  ‘Bro, it’s easy.’ I scribble the formula on my page and slide it over. ‘Here, take this while I text Stef.’

  I lock my phone. Cross my fingers.

  A few minutes later my phone vibrates.

  Excitement surges through me like electricity. I shoot my arm up and stretch my fingers like I’m reaching for the ceiling.

  ‘Miss, can I go to the toilet?’

  Miss Fletcher looks at her watch then down at the book she’s holding in her hand. She contemplates then looks at her watch again. And contemplates again.

  ‘Miss?’ I beg. ‘Pleeease.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘I got a stomach-ache. I really gotta go,’ I say, clutching my stomach for added effect.

  ‘Okay, quickly then,’ she says, waving me out. ‘If it gets worse, go to sick bay.’

  ‘Thanks, miss,’ I say, hurrying out of the classroom.

  Sneaky, I know. But hey, I need to see my girlfriend. And, seriously, who wouldn’t want to skip maths?

  I run along the back of the school building, ducking when I pass a window. Our school is complicated. If you didn’t know the grounds, you’d get lost. I feel sorry for new students. The older boys give the year sevens wrong directions all the time. They send them to places like the toilets or the staffroom. I copped it back then. It’s part of the initiation into Christian Boys High. The upside is you learn quickly who to trust.

  Stef is standing under the gum tree I had to draw once for art class. She peers around, scanning the area nervously.

  I sneak up behind her and tug on her ponytail. ‘Boo.’

  She jumps then beams when she sees it’s me. ‘You scared me,’ she gasps, placing her hand on her chest.

  ‘Did you get out okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I told Mr Jackson I had a stomach-ache and needed to go to the toilet.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘I told my teacher the same thing.’

  We laugh and I’m thinking this is cool. I’m getting a buzz sneaking around like this.

  ‘I like your hair tied back like that,’ I say.

  She blushes. Pushes me gently. ‘I like your hair gelled like that.’

  We laugh again and the buzz grows stronger.

  ‘Feels good to see you,’ I say, taking hold of her hands. ‘I’ve missed you. I hate not being able to talk to you at the station.’

  ‘I know. It’s hard for me too. But it’s better if nobody knows. And it makes it kind of special, don’t you think?’

  I smile. The truth is I don’t care who knows we’re together. I want to be able to put my arm around her or hold her hand when we’re at the station. But if keeping us secret stops people picking on her, then I’m cool … especially if it keeps us together.

  ‘You’re a bad influence on me, Romeo.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve never skipped class before.’

  ‘Well, technically it’s only half a class.’

  She giggles, slaps my arm playfully. ‘Do you want to make it a full class next time?’ she asks, grinning.

  ‘Hell, yeah!’ I cry out.

  ‘Shhh,’ she laughs, cupping her hand over my mouth. ‘Someone will hear us.’

  ‘Let’s do it again tomorrow,’ I suggest.

  ‘Not tomorrow, I’ve got practice exams all day. What about period two on Monday? I’ve got religion, what have you got?’

  ‘I don’t know but it doesn’t matter. I’ll text you like I did today.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We can do this every day if you like,’ I whisper, sliding my arms around her. We kiss. It’s a long, open-mouthed kiss that makes me forget we’re supposed to be hiding. But I don’t care if we get busted. This was a good move. I swear Diz comes up with the best ideas.

  We keep kissing, touching and hugging, and it’s awesome until Stef senses class is finishing. She checks her phone for the time.

  ‘I better go before the bell,’ she says, giving me a final peck on the lips.

  I release her and watch as she treks through the overgrown bush garden. She turns and waves as she disappears between the buildings of Saint Adele.

  The bell rings. Durrum, durrum, durrum, durrum.

  Lunch.

  29

  Robbie arrives carrying four or five sausage rolls, three cans of drink, bags of chips and a couple of chocolate bars.

  ‘Here,’ he says. ‘If it’s yours, take it.’

  The boys clamour around him like vultures. They take their goods and leave him with empty arms.

  ‘What’d you get?’ Diz asks, grabbing his packet of salt and vinegar chips.

  Robbie grins. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls out a packet of chicken chips and a Crunchie.

  ‘Hid the best, bro,’ he says, ripping the paper off the chocolate bar with his teeth. ‘Hey, Romes,’ he says. ‘You’re not gonna believe what I just heard.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dano’s got bets going.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dano’s got everyone placing bets on your fight tomorrow. Don’t worry, bro, you’re the favourite,’ he says, dicing Ants, who’s peeling the pastry crust off his sausage roll.
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  My eyes narrow and I glare at Zac. ‘See! That’s what fight club is all about. I friggin’ told you!’

  ‘Relax, will you? It’s no biggie,’ Zac says, frowning.

  My adrenalin goes straight to top gear. ‘No big deal?’ I yell. ‘I’m not entertainment for the Fobs. Stuff you, bro!’

  I storm off.

  ‘Romes! You’re being an idiot,’ Zac calls.

  ‘Get lost,’ I shout back.

  Diz catches up. He grabs my arm. Stops me. ‘Slow down. Where you going?’

  ‘I’m gonna fix up Dane.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone betting on me. That’s fight club crap and I said from the beginning I don’t want in on fight club. I’m settling a score with Palmer, that’s it.’

  ‘All right, all right, calm down. I’ll come with you.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Zac, Robbie and Ants walking towards us. I start marching again, straight over to the Fobs.

  They lounge on and around the lunch tables, shoving each other, eating and laughing. As I near them I hear someone call out, ‘Shhh, the Lebs are here.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I demand, stopping before them and looking around for Dane.

  ‘Romes, my man,’ says Jarrod, jumping off the table and offering me his fist. He’s grinning, happy to see me. Why wouldn’t he be? I’m the star attraction of his fight club.

  I push his fist away. ‘I’m not dicing you, bro. Where’s Dano?’

  Jarrod’s face turns serious. His mates hop off the tables and close in behind him.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asks, folding his arms. He glances at Zac, who’s caught up and is standing by my side. Behind me I sense the other Lebs gathering.

  ‘Where’s Dano?’ I repeat.

  ‘Why d’you need to know?’

  ‘He’s taking bets on the fight.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Don’t pretend like you don’t know, Jarrod,’ Diz chimes in.

  Ata shuffles forward. He’s not as big as the rest of them. Or as shifty. ‘Romes, relax,’ he says, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘He got called up to Gibson’s office.’

  I pull away from Ata and turn back to Jarrod. ‘Listen, Jarrod,’ I say, pointing at him. ‘I don’t give a crap about your stupid fight club. I’m fighting Palmer to settle a score – my score! You get me? I’m not doing it so Dano can make money.’