The Summer of Kicks Read online

  ‘So,’ I ask, ‘what if Warren the Tool walks in this afternoon and straightaway bites me on the ear?’

  ‘Then,’ Doctor Phil says, taking back his position of authority, ‘then, young man, you’re well and truly in the poop.’

  Chapter 3

  Princess Leia and Chewbacca hook up

  It’s six minutes before first bell and I drop my bag. It joins the pile of mistreated backpacks growing beside the long row of silver lunch seats hugging the edge of Block B – English block – all the way from the start of the quadrangle to the covered walkway that leads off to the library, the science labs and the rooms where the dumb kids bang nails into bits of wood. Ben Hemmerling has been occupying our seat since eight o’clock. The same silver seat we’ve been occupying since we found ourselves as the only people with a pair of XY chromosomes in the whole of our grade seven home ec class.

  ‘I’ve almost taken out the boss on the gatekeeper level,’ Ben says, looking up from his phone for a microsecond. ‘Three warrior keys and the skull-token of Wrathbah to go and the pathway to the Kingdom of Glory will be unlocked.’

  I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. He might as well have pulled a Lithuanian dictionary on me and started up a game of ‘What’s this word mean?’.

  ‘Dude, once I enter the Kingdom of Glory, the hot queen is going to be on me like a fat kid on a cake,’ he says, fingers still pressing and swiping at the screen. ‘The hot queen, man.’

  ‘I have no interest in your stupid game, Hemmo,’ I say to Ben. ‘Never have, never will.’

  ‘Dude, you’re so missing out.’

  I look at him, hunched over his miniature gaming console, eyes barely a fist-thickness from the screen, oblivious to the year twelve girls in netball skirts who are currently slinking by.

  ‘Yeah, Hemmo, I’m missing out.’

  I turn my face to the quadrangle, but before my eyes can focus, there’s a shocking smack to the side of my head. I clutch at the burning sensation in the space between my cheekbone and my ear. It feels like someone walked up to me and punched me, point blank, but when I look down, I see a tennis ball, rolling into hiding under the silver seat.

  ‘You should peg it back at that kid’s head,’ Hemmo says. ‘That little year eighter, see him? He looks like he’s about nine. Here, give it to me. I’ll chuck it at him.’ But I don’t. It really didn’t hit me that hard and there’s a chance he didn’t even mean it. I bend down, reach under the lunch seat, pick up the ball and throw it back to the random year eighter, who’s still laughing.

  Polar Fleece Reece joins us. Bailey, too, and their backpacks instantly merge with the pile.

  ‘Guys, she came into work on Saturday,’ says Reece, who looks like he’s earned too many excitement tokens, and may actually explode at any second.

  ‘Who did?’ asks Hemmo.

  ‘Your mother, who do you think?’ says Reece. ‘Candace Mc-freaking-Allister.’

  ‘Holy crap, are you serious?’

  ‘Wow, Candace McAllister,’ says Bailey. ‘She’s pretty.’

  ‘Pretty freaking hot is what she is,’ Reece says. ‘And she came into my store!’

  Reece works weekends and Thursday nights at Pant-R-Us, a discount fashion store that specialises in – you guessed it – pants. Or pant. It’s run by a husband and wife team with a limited grasp of the English language and no grasp at all on the concept of store naming. And they’re also Reece’s parents.

  They talk about her, Candace McAllister, as if she’s the living child of Princess Leia and Chewbacca, or a one-off life-size inflatable Gollum personally autographed by Peter Jackson and Tolkein. It’s like she’s the Holy Grail of sought-after physical objects. Like she’s on a golden pedestal and they’re looking at her from behind safety glass as thick as their heads. But they don’t know her. Not as a person. Not like I do. Well, I don’t technically know her, I mean, we’ve never really hung out together. But I have spoken to her. That time on the bike when I was twelve. And at the end of last term when she told me to drop dead, but that was clearly a misunderstanding. To me, she’s more than just someone to idolise or drool over. She’s more than that. She’s … well, she’s perfect. Wait, is perfect too strong a word? I guess for her not to be perfect, she’d need to have at least one identifiable fault. So far I haven’t come across it, so until I do, perfect she is.

  ‘And what did you say to her? Did you talk to her? Did you say anything to her?’ Hemmo asks. ‘What did you say to her?’ His position in this scenario is that if someone he’s friends with actually talks to Candace McAllister, then he’s one degree of separation closer to the hottest girl in our grade.

  ‘Well, Mum pounced on her as soon as she walked in,’ Reece explains. ‘But I was behind the counter, pressing buttons on the register. You know, trying to look cool. I don’t even know what I was pressing. Anyway, she comes over to me, right up to the counter, and she picks up a hairclip.’

  ‘You sell hairclips?’ I ask. ‘I thought it was just pant.’

  ‘Hairclips too,’ Reece says.

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Material ribbons attached to silver clips. They come in all different patterns. Limited fabric runs. They’re all handmade in Plumpton. Some lady does them, she’s semi-retired, I think.’

  ‘Woah. You know a lot about hairclips, Reecey.’

  ‘I have to. It’s my job.’

  ‘So was she impressed with your unnatural knowledge of head accessories? What did she say?’ Bailey asks.

  ‘Well, she rocks up to the counter, obviously drawn to me, and she picks one of the hairclips up. Yellow-lime with spots. And she says, “How much is this?”’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said, “Hairclips.”’

  ‘That was dumb,’ says Hemmo.

  ‘I know, but who cares, right? Then she says, “Are they for your hair?”’

  ‘And I say, “What’s up?”’

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘I know, but before I realise what’s going on she’s turned around and she’s walking out the door, moving onto the next shop.’

  ‘So then what?’

  ‘So I see her as she’s walking out and I don’t want it to be over. I mean, this is Candace McAllister in my store, and I’m watching her walk out, and it’s simultaneously one of the most soul-destroying and one of the most spectacular things I’ve ever seen and I just watch her, step by step, as she’s walking away but I don’t want it to be over, so, and get this, I jump over the counter.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Totally,’ Reece says. ‘I go full Starsky and Hutch over the counter and I knock a pile of pamphlets or whatever onto the floor, but I don’t stop to pick them up and Mum’s freaking out, thinking I’ve gone nuts, but I don’t care, I just keep moving ’cos it’s Candace McAllister, and I’ve landed funny on the floor, kind of stumbled and I might have done my ankle, so I’m half crawl-running, and cheap-ass pants are hitting me in the face, but I make it to the front of the store. I look out into the mall and I see her heading into, get this, Bra Bazaar, and I follow her all the way to the bra shop.’

  No one’s saying a word. Candace McAllister and bras. Nothing further needs to be said.

  ‘And I’m standing there in the doorway of the bra shop, and I’m puffing and wheezing and I catch my breath just a bit, just enough to yell out to her.’

  ‘Yell?’ I ask. ‘You yell at her?’

  Reece nods.

  ‘What the hell do you yell at her?’

  ‘I yell, “Thank you for shopping at Pant-R-Us.” She doesn’t turn around, but I know she heard me. Hell, everyone heard me. Thanks for shopping at Pant-R-Us.’

  There are high-fives all round. Polar Fleece Reece has just earned legendary status. He’s the first in our group to actually speak to Candace McAllister since high school began.
r />   The pathway to the Kingdom of Glory has been unlocked.

  Chapter 4

  Shakespeare and a nutjob

  The bus drops me at the corner of Chalmers Street and Pinetree Drive and I clump down the steps, saying a general ‘see ya’ to Fritz the driver. Fritz is German. Or so he claims. His accent is somewhat dubious. Not bad on some days. Other days it’s a little too Australian, like he’s forgotten to do it. He says he was in World War II, but I have my doubts about that, too.

  ‘Auf Wiedersehen, Shh-tarrphyre,’ he says. Today he’s remembered.

  ‘Starrphyre! Wait up!’

  Oh God. It’s Mikayla Petschler. This is not her stop. She lives a street or two back from the shops and is supposed to get off two stops after me, but every so often she blobs off at my stop and annoys me all the way home. I try not to let her know she annoys me because I guess we’re kind of friends, and I guess that’s OK.

  ‘Sooo,’ she says. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Yeah, um … pretty good,’ I say. ‘Maths, double science, handed in my final English assignment.’

  ‘Good for you,’ she says. She sounds like somebody’s mother. ‘What was it on?’

  ‘Shakespeare. Romeo and …’ I realise that I’ve verbally stepped in something I should have avoided. I watch as Mikayla’s whole face lights up; her cheeks fill with colour and her eyes start to look all dreamy as if I’ve just given her a huge bunch of flowers or asked her to the formal.

  ‘Wait … hang on … no, it was Hamlet,’ I say. ‘Hamlet, you know, the one where there’s that guy, Hamlet, and he … um … goes to the place …’ I know nothing about Hamlet, which to anyone listening would be blindingly obvious, but it seems not to matter to Mikayla because she’s already waist-deep in Montagues and Capulets.

  ‘Romeo and Juliet is so romantic,’ she says, ‘Tragic, how they all die at the end, but sweet. Not the dying part. I don’t think that’s sweet. Anyone who thought that bit was sweet would have to be totally deranged.’

  I look at her. She looks totally deranged.

  ‘But don’t you think it’s so completely wonderful how two people younger than us – I’m pretty sure that Juliet was in year nine or something – I mean, I haven’t read it, but that Leonardo DiCaprio guy is so hot and I’d totally kill myself to be with him. Wait, but then I’d be dead. Still, dead and with Leonardo DiCaprio would be damn awesome.’ She doesn’t draw breath. Just keeps on talking. ‘You know, you kind of look like him a bit, I mean, you’re both cute, and my cousin’s name is Juliet, well, not her first name, but how’s that for a coincidence? It’s almost like you’re kind of Romeo and … well, we’re a bit like them, I s’pose. Romeo and Juliet. Imagine that, if you think about it, the world’s greatest love story could be about us.’

  She looks at me in a way that suggests the next words to come out of her mouth could be ‘Will you marry me?’ and I have to think of something, anything, to change the subject.

  ‘My sister’s boyfriend’s moving in today. Into my room.’

  ‘Ooh, he’s a lucky boy,’ Mikayla says. She throws in an elated squeal and nudges my shoulder with hers.

  OK. Wrong angle. Change again.

  ‘Um … hey, guess what?’ I say. ‘I’m starting a band.’ I’m not starting a band, but it’s all I’ve got.

  ‘Wow, a band!’ she squeals again. ‘How totally cool! Guys in bands are soooo awesome. So popular with the laaay-deeez.’

  Another shoulder nudge.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, they pretty much always have girlfriends. You’ll probably need one too, you know.’ I can see her looking at me, wanting me to say something, but even making eye contact at this point would be suicidal. I stare down at my shoes, kicking along the dirt, making dusty puff-clouds that circle the ground, and I keep walking. I have to tread carefully, as I talk to this girl who clearly has no other friends. I’m happy enough to be nice to Mikayla, but I don’t want to be too nice. I can be friendly, but I don’t want her to get the impression that I like her in any way other than just as my occasional bus-stop stalker. I can’t ignore her totally. It’s poor form to be rude just for the sake of being rude. But I can’t give off too much either. I keep staring at my shoes and kicking up more clouds of dirt, holding the balance of the world in check.

  ‘Do you need a fanpage?’ Mikayla asks. ‘Because I could totally set it up for you. I can run your website too. Do all your updates and tweets. I’ll have to know all your passwords and everything else there is to know about you first. We’ll need to get quite intimate,’ she giggles. ‘Oh, this is so exciting, Starrphyre. Guys in bands are soooo cool. Even if they’re dorky bands. But yours won’t be dorky. Not yours. No way. I mean, look at you,’ she says, looking at me. ‘You’re like a rock star. Who saw that coming? My best friend – a rock star!’

  ‘Mmm.’ My mmm is a replica of Candace McAllister’s indifferent mmm from a few summers ago. I try to think of something else to say. Something to bring the excitement factor down a bit. ‘It’ll probably be me and Reece. In the band, you know. Hemmo. Maybe some other guys.’ I’ve gone all monotone now. I must sound incredibly boring, but it kind of has to be my angle with Mikayla today. After moving from Romeo and Juliet to sharing my bedroom to getting intimate with me, I need to dilute pretty much everything I say or she might overheat.

  ‘And what are you going to call your band?’

  I have absolutely no idea. I haven’t thought about it yet, because until forty seconds ago there was no band. Technically there still isn’t, and may never be, but Mikayla’s brain has moved away from the idea of us being couple of the year so I’m happy to stay on topic.

  ‘You should totally call yourselves the Brittney Pigs,’ she suggests.

  ‘The Brittney Pigs?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mikayla says. ‘I’ve been thinking about that name for ages, you know, if I ever start my own band or whatever. It’s kind of a secret at the moment, but you can have it. You can totally use it for your band if you want to.’

  I can’t tell her it’s a stupid name, but it’s a stupid name.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘You keep it.’

  ‘Really? Thanks,’ she says. ‘I didn’t really want to give up the name, I mean, in case I do actually start a band or something, but I totally will if you want me to, though.’

  Seriously, a band called the Brittney Pigs?

  As we pass the signpost at the corner of Travers Street, I half wave to Mikayla. A friendly but not too friendly ‘see ya’, and she continues on her way home. I’m walking up to my house, past the leaning letterbox where I stood with Candace McAllister and my plastered foot and I’m actually thinking about what I said. Could we really start a band?

  Chapter 5

  Enter the Tool

  The front door squeaks like it always does and as I step inside I see the sign. Blu Tacked to the archway is about a car’s length of butcher’s paper with Welcome, Warren painted across it in big rainbow-coloured lettering.

  ‘It was only a research day today so I came home from work early,’ Mum says, paintbrush in hand. ‘You know, make the Tool feel welcome.’ She smiles. She’d never call him that to his face, but it’s kind of actually his real name. It’s Warren Thetoulle. Seriously. It’s Belgian or something. He pronounces it with the accent on the first syllable. THE-tyool. I’m pretty sure that even if his last name were Smith, we’d still call him Warren the Tool because the guy’s a tool. End of story.

  It’s 5.15.

  ‘So where’s the Tool?’ I ask.

  Mum shrugs. ‘I thought he was supposed to be here at 4.30.’

  ‘Five twenty-two,’ calls Nanna from the kitchen. ‘Mark my words.’ She’s clanking a hot tray from the oven. Nanna fancies herself as a bit of a baker. She sets the tray down on the benchtop and joins us under the welcome sign with a cup of tea in one hand and a saucer in the ot
her.

  ‘Five twenty-two, Nan?’

  ‘On the dot,’ she says, ‘never been surer. The signs don’t lie. You watch, I can feel it in my waters.’

  ‘That could just be another urinary tract infection,’ says Mum, smiling.

  ‘Oh, shoosh now,’ says Nan. ‘Just watch the clock. Five twenty-two he’ll be here. I’m telling you.’

  We’re all standing under the sign, looking through the flyscreen door to the road. We hear him before he’s in sight. He’s half a street away, but the muffled sounds of a throwaway beat-heavy club track are growing louder, invading and conquering every available cell of quietness. Warren’s tyres hit our driveway. There’s a flash of black as he speeds towards the house, the electro-noise with its rapid-fire bassline now amplified to an unbearable level and, with a screech that signs his name in rubber on our driveway, he shuts his vehicle down. Warren the Tool has arrived.

  ‘Five twenty-two?’ Nan asks, reaching for my arm and twisting it to make my watch-face available for her eyeballs. ‘It’s 5.22. I’ve never been wrong, you know.’

  It’s precisely 5.18.

  ‘Dudes!’ He’s at the front door, arms wide, assuming we want to welcome him with a hug. He’s assuming we like him. He’s assuming a lot.

  ‘And there’s my new mum. Can I call you Mummy?’ he asks, moving in for a kiss.

  ‘You can call me Sheila,’ Mum says firmly, brushing him away. ‘Or Mrs J. Call me Mummy and your bags hit the street. Would you like to come in?’

  We sit in the front room. Mum calls it the formal lounge, but we’ve never really done anything formal in there. I don’t even know what activities would come under the heading of formal. An evening of organised waltzing? High tea with André Rieu?