The Whole of My World Page 5

  He doesn’t laugh or act surprised. ‘You should go.’

  And at that moment I know I will. ‘Are the beaches different to here? Sorrento? Portsea?’ I try to think of all the beaches my parents used to take us to – Anglesea, Torquay; even Port Fairy once, although I can hardly remember it. There were photos, of course. A lot of them. But they disappeared when Dad drew his line.

  ‘No comparison. The sand is white and clean, fine as sugar. And the waves are different. I can’t explain it, but the way they tumble, clear and smooth, the colour of the water . . . Maybe it’s the sky. Or the weather.’ Mick’s looking at me, his eyes as big as saucers. He fixes his gaze on the road again, carefully navigating the dribble of post-peak-hour traffic. ‘No comparison,’ he says after a minute, his voice unexpectedly hard.

  As we approach Stonnington Station, the crossing alarm starts up and the lights flash with a grating urgency. Although we’re safely outside them, and Mick has no trouble pulling over, something about their harsh ringing, the blinding red of the bulbs, pressures me to get away fast, as though the dark night outside is the only safe place to be.

  I get out and lean into the car. ‘Thanks for the ride,’ I say. Still, the pressure, the ringing and flashing, the thunder of the approaching citybound train headed in the opposite direction to home . . . Why is it so hard to breathe? What if this never happens again? I smile at Mick. What if next time he doesn’t recognise me or separate me from all the schoolgirls who make the trek up Leafy Crescent every week?

  ‘It was good to meet you, Shelley,’ he says in answer to my silent doubts, his voice enclosing my name like a perfectly fitting glove.

  ‘Good luck on Saturday.’ I offer a weird little wave that I wish I could take back, but stand there stiffly instead.

  ‘Will I see you next week?’ He seems to really want to know. My heart lurches in my chest at this possibility.

  I clear my throat and brave a smile. I was planning to come anyway, but nothing will stop me now. ‘Yes,’ I say. And just in case he didn’t hear me, I say it again, only louder. ‘Yes.’

  At school, Tara has been sulking all morning.

  I make multiple attempts to get her to talk. I start with a couple of questions about the other cheersquadders – ‘So the redhead is how old?’ and ‘Which one knows all the stats?’ – but all I get are one-word answers and the cool, even stare that I was introduced to the first day we met. But by lunchtime, the push and shove of the schoolyard forces us to find shelter in a quiet corner, out of everyone’s way. And slowly, slowly, the ice begins to melt.

  ‘Do you think Mossy will play this week?’ I ask, encouraged by the fact that Tara’s last reply had come in the form of three words, not one.

  She shakes her head. ‘I hope not. Better he get right than risk another injury.’

  I nod, opening my sandwich and pulling out the cheese.

  ‘Can I have that?’ Tara asks. We’re leaning against the red-brick wall of the Art Room, our feet stretched out in front of us, our lunch boxes propped on our knees.

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ I say, and watch her slot the cheese into her Vegemite sandwich. ‘Seriously?’

  She nods vigorously, her mouth too full to answer. ‘Bloody good.’

  I shrug, relieved she’s over her dark mood. I want to ask her about Mick – what he likes and doesn’t like. The stuff I’ll never find out on a footy card or even in her amazing autograph book. ‘I hope Mick doesn’t end up like Mossy,’ I say, testing the waters before plunging in, realising too late that I might be mozzing Mick just by mentioning it.

  Tara shrugs. ‘Yeah.’

  Not the encouragement I was hoping for but, as Dad always says, there’s no challenge in taking the easy ball. Real champions want the hard ball. ‘He seems really nice,’ I add, watching her chewing mouth to measure the effect my words are having.

  Silence.

  I take a deep breath and am about to start again when she swallows her mouthful, turns those hard blue eyes on me and says, ‘He’s not your friend, you know.’

  ‘I know that. I didn’t say he was my friend. He just seems nice.’

  ‘They’re not like us. None of them are.’

  ‘I was talking about Mick, no one else.’

  ‘I know what you were talking about,’ Tara snaps. And then she shrugs, as though the whole conversation is beneath her, and asks if I’m going to eat my apple.

  I wake early on Thursday morning, intending to catch the 7.08. I don’t know why I bother. It’s not like arriving at school earlier means the day will end sooner, but somehow it feels like it might.

  Even in the dim, autumn light I can see Josh leaning against the waiting-room entrance on Platform 1, his messy hair and huge grin standing out against the dull, tired-looking businessmen and women around him.

  ‘What are you doing here? Forget where your school is?’ I ask, dumping my bag on the ground beside him.

  He pretends to kick my bag, an exaggerated running kick like you’d see on a rugby field.

  ‘Loser,’ I say.

  He laughs, stopping mid-air, then carefully straightens my bag like it’s something precious. ‘There, there,’ he says, patting it.

  I shake my head. ‘No school today?’ He’s wearing jeans and a Billy Idol T-shirt with a black windcheater tied around his waist. It’s freezing but Josh doesn’t feel the cold like normal people. I tug at my blazer, pulling the collar high on my neck.

  ‘Half day,’ he says, not really answering my question. Half day or not, Glenvalley High is one block from the station. He doesn’t catch the train to school. He walks. ‘You’re early, even for you.’

  It’s a Brown thing – to be on time or, actually, to be early. ‘On time’ is ten minutes early in my household. ‘Big day,’ I say. ‘Going to Fernlee Park tonight.’

  ‘Again? You moving in there?’

  I shrug, bothered by his smirk even though I was expecting it. ‘Tara asked me. She’s my friend.’ I say it like this is about her and not about me. ‘That’s what friends do. They do stuff together. All kinds of stuff . . .’ I’m waffling and we both know it.

  ‘Okay then,’ Josh says, lifting his hands in mock surrender.

  I can see the train from Mountvalley snaking its way around the bend towards us. Glenvalley is a terminus, which means that even when the train arrives we have to wait for the passengers to unload before it heads back into the city.

  ‘Did you see Mossy?’ He’s pretending not to care but I know, even though he’s an Eastern supporter, he loves Peter Moss. Josh thinks he plays like Mossy – high leaping grabs, kicking goals that defy physics, and that wild, scraggy hair that makes him look like a TV star.

  ‘Nah, he’s still out. But I met Killer, Blackie, Buddha . . .’ I trail off, saving the best till last. ‘Mick Edwards said I had a good eye.’

  ‘Edwards? The sandgroper has-been?’

  I bristle, despite knowing that Josh is only stirring. ‘He’s a star!’ I snap. ‘Better than Tinker and Fly put together!’ The boys always used to wind me up like this when we were little, and it always worked. ‘Dad says he’s got the goods too,’ I add.

  Josh’s eyes sparkle, and he nods, fair enough. No one argues with my dad’s footy genius, not even up-himself Josh McGuire.

  ‘See his goal in the second half?’ I continue, pleased that he seems to be listening. ‘Sheer brilliance.’ It feels great to talk about Mick like this, free to gush and glow without having to be careful or in control.

  ‘Nah, went to watch the under 19s at Glenvalley.’

  ‘Did you get a game?’ The senior coaches have let Josh play a few times – sometimes the junior stars are asked to fill in above grade when the older boys are injured. We used to all go and watch, too, lining the boundary to cheer them on, screaming like lunatics if our boys got anywhere near the ball. They didn’t have to blitz – just making it into the action was impressive, given that the opposition and some of their teammates were twice their size.

>   ‘Not this time. But Brent is out – could be for the season. Sucks, but it means they’ll probably need me again.’

  ‘Poor Brent.’ I step back a bit as I realise that Josh has grown a lot, even just this year. I study his face, the strong jaw and the protruding Adam’s apple I hadn’t noticed before. I can see, I think, what he’ll look like as an adult. It’s there – under all the smirking and pranks – the Josh of the future. Josh as a man.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say, hating the catch in my voice at this image, ‘you should watch Mick’s goal. It’s an absolute beauty.’ I manage a cool smile, hoping he swallows it. ‘You could learn something.’

  He snorts. ‘Yeah right.’

  The train shunts noisily, the hiss and grunt of the brakes drown out the Vic Rail announcer. We both watch it for a moment, the crowd on the station gathering and shifting as one towards it. I glance at my watch. A couple more minutes.

  ‘Did you want to go for a run after school?’ he asks, eyes still on the train. ‘Next week some time?’

  ‘I s’pose. When?’

  ‘Wednesday or Thursday?’ He shrugs like it doesn’t matter but he’s being weird, looking everywhere but at me.

  ‘Thursdays are training nights. Wednesday?’

  ‘You’re going to Fernlee Park every week?’ His eyes are narrow, but the smile remains. It’s possible he thinks I’m avoiding him.

  ‘Not every week,’ I say, although I’d like to. I’m also going on Tuesday night but if I tell him that, he’ll definitely arc up. Tara says the players have more time on Tuesdays – there aren’t as many of them because it’s not compulsory, but training finishes early so the players often hang around afterwards. But Josh won’t understand. He just doesn’t get it.

  ‘Made some friends, huh?’ he says.

  I shrug. ‘A few. I already told you.’

  The train doors open and the station attendant announces that it’s stopping all stations to Flinders Street.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say, heaving my swollen bag onto my shoulder.

  ‘It’s bigger than you.’ Josh smiles, lifting the bag higher on my shoulder. His hand brushes against my neck in the process, and the heat rushes to my cheeks.

  He grins, enjoying my embarrassment.

  ‘Careful, Joshie,’ I snap, desperate to put some space between us to catch my breath, my voice sounding harsher than intended. ‘Don’t want you to break a nail.’

  He blows me a kiss, which – annoyingly – makes me blush even deeper. I stick out my tongue before I can stop myself, and just in case this isn’t embarrassing enough, my blazer catches on the train door handle, yanking me back from a quick getaway. Don’t look back! I tell myself. Don’t look . . .

  I look back. Josh is, as I feared, grinning stupidly. I’m tempted to yell something brilliant until I see a cluster of St Mary’s girls zoning in on us, Ginnie Perkins’ perfect blonde ponytail bobbing away dead centre, and I shut the door, praying they don’t get on.

  Despite my encounter with Josh, the buzz has returned by 3.30 and I feel like I’ve been floating all the way down Fernlee Park Road. Even Tara’s moodiness seems to have lifted.

  A few of the other kids nod at me when I arrive, which feels weirdly nice. I recognise only a couple of them, including Red, her quiet pride at knowing everything before anyone else securing her spot up the front. And a kid everyone calls ‘Jim-Bob’ because he looks like the boy from The Waltons – the mopey one who’s obsessed with planes.

  ‘Nice book,’ Red says as I open my brand-new autograph book, flattening the pages for the first autograph. The cover is chocolate brown, and the new modern-looking Falcon emblem is large and bold on the front.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling ridiculously pleased.

  ‘Eddie did well,’ Jim-Bob says to the crowd, but it feels like he’s talking to me.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, pride swelling in my chest. It’s starting to feel a bit like I’m meant to be here. But when Mick’s car pulls into the Fernlee Park car park, a lump lodges in my throat. None of this cheersquad stuff will mean anything if Mick doesn’t care. Will he even remember me? Will he offer to drive me again?

  ‘Thinks he’s so hot in that ridiculous car.’ Tara’s voice is sharp like a dagger. She might have forgiven me, but she hasn’t forgiven Mick for whatever she thinks he’s done. I find myself torn between wanting him to talk to me and my dread of Tara seeing it.

  The car door slams and Mick crosses the empty car park. He greets us all as a group, then the requests for autographs and photos start up. I join in with equal excitement.

  Tara hangs back until the crowd has thinned. When her turn comes, she thrusts her autograph book at Mick, half watching him, half turned away, as though she’s doing him a favour and not the other way around. He signs it, hardly noticing. And then it’s my turn. I stand my ground, fighting the urge to push past the other kids. I hold out my shiny new official Glenthorn autograph book, its pages stiff and barely touched. The plastic cover had cracked when I opened it for Killer, who came through earlier. I’d turned it to the third page for him and watched him scrawl his signature with barely a glance my way. Kanga and Blackie arrived after him, signing their names on the pages following. I’ve saved the first page for Mick. I open it to face him, its surface flat and clean and new. He takes my book without looking up and the beginnings of panic tighten my chest. He doesn’t remember.

  He signs my book and goes to hand it back when he starts, as though only just realising I’m here. His smile is wide and open. ‘Shelley! I didn’t see you.’

  Heat and pleasure battle with dread as I feel Tara’s drill-like gaze. And I’m struggling to decide what’s more important.

  ‘Good to see you got home okay,’ Mick says, oblivious to the silent battle happening in my head in front of him.

  I smile and nod, trying to come up with something intelligent to say. I must look weird because he frowns at me in concern, raised eyebrows and all. ‘Nice goal in the third quarter,’ I say, reaching for the thing I know best.

  ‘Lucky shot,’ he says, shrugging. But it wasn’t. It was a beauty, all the way from the boundary.

  ‘Wrong foot too,’ I add, forgetting about the others, who are staring at us in confusion and disbelief. Forgetting about Tara and her steely gaze. ‘I like the two-step you did to push it out.’

  Mick laughs. ‘Thought I’d get pinged for that.’

  I shrug, safe and warm in this space now. ‘Nah, fifty-fifty. Dad says for every close decision you win, you lose two. So, be careful Saturday.’

  The deep throaty laugh he lets out is the most exciting thing I’ve heard. He hands back my autograph book, shaking his head. ‘Good theory. I’ll keep that in mind.’

  I stand with the book in my hand, the pages open to his broad, sweeping autograph, feeling like I could fend off bullets with this priceless thing. The other kids have disappeared to meet the latest arrival.

  ‘See you after?’ Mick says. To me, alone.

  I nod. And nod again.

  Mick disappears inside the gym, and I stand there for a full minute before I remember – Tara.

  She’s hanging back, not with the other kids as I expected, but right where she was standing before. She’s no more than a long arm’s reach away, and yet, the space between us is enormous. I see that in the stiff tilt of her chin. I want to confront her – confront this – to say something in my defence. But all I have are questions. Why is she angry with me? What does it matter if Mick and I are friends?

  Before I can find the right words, she shoves her camera and autograph book into her schoolbag, which she swings onto her shoulder. Her smile is empty and light. ‘See if the press box is empty?’ she asks.

  I smile hesitantly, then with more confidence. ‘Yeah. Let’s go watch some footy.’

  We live two kilometres from Glenvalley train station. During the week I catch the bus to the station, but on Saturdays the bus doesn’t run, so when Dad and I go to the footy we walk to the station to catch t
he Valley Park bus. We could drive – Dad could drive – but he likes walking more than anyone I know. Sometimes he wanders through the whole of Glenvalley, all the way to Hunters Hill, covering miles without ever really going anywhere. Walking in an enormous circle, never choosing the same path twice, and always moving, like he’s scared to stand still.

  He used to walk when Mum was alive, but not like now. Sometimes he’ll be gone for hours, returning with his cheeks pink from the cold air, the cuffs of his pants damp from the golf course or the grassy knolls at the back of the drainpipes.

  I don’t mind walking with Dad on a Saturday. I’m scared of dogs, and there’s a particularly aggro Doberman that patrols the top end of the Finkler Reserve that Dad has rescued me from more than once. Plus, today’s game is a big one. The Falcons are playing the Panthers at Valley Park and Dad said he’d take me.

  It’s a game we used to always watch as a family. We’d circle it on the fixture every year and make sure the day was set aside for the footy. But we haven’t done it since the accident, so I’m surprised Dad’s offered to come. He doesn’t even barrack for Glenthorn. He doesn’t barrack for anyone.

  This is the weird thing about my dad: although he loves football, he doesn’t follow a single team. He just wants to see a great game, fair umpiring and a high level of skill. Other than that, he doesn’t give a toss. It’s possible he’s the only football fan in the whole of Victoria who doesn’t have a team. Even people who hate football – in Melbourne, anyway – have a team. It’s like a rule. The moment you’re born in this city, or even if you move here, you have to choose a team to barrack for. You don’t really even get to choose. It’s handed down to you, like property or, if you barrack for Carringbush, a hereditary disease. No choice, no argument, no debate. If you’re born into a Glenthorn family, you become a Glenthorn supporter. Warriors breed Warriors, Panthers breed Panthers. That’s why I’ve always felt sorry for Angels supporters – years of losing with no hope of success, but still they show up every week. Because that’s what you do.