The freak

Mum lightened up during the car ride to school. She was going off to have her hair cut in what she called a funky hairdressers and have lunch with “the girls.” She made the you may actually enjoy it speech, as anticipated, and drove off before I could deliver my comeback.

Which of course meant it went round and round my head as I made my way around from the school’s side entrance. Andrews had made a big deal of saying they would be the only gates open and if we didn’t make it on time we’d be locked out. Fine by me!

I walked up through the Years 8 and 9 yard, picked my way over the squashed banana and oranges that had probably been used as ammunition in some You’re not the boss of me, wanker! battle and made my way to the hall. St. Andrew’s Hall was like some kind of museum, full of old stuff and old smells. The walls were covered with ancient dusty photos and wooden boards that showed the names of school captains, sporting captains and guys who had fought and died in wars. The best thing about the photographs was the really bad haircuts and the size of the footy shorts.

Underneath the boards were rows of cabinets full of old trophies. Above the stage there was a giant banner proclaiming ST. ANDREW’S COLLEGE: RICH IN TRADITION FOR ONE HUNDRED YEARS. It was meant to inspire us, or that’s what Waddlehead told us at assemblies. I didn’t get what the big deal was. So the school’d been around for one hundred years. It was old, that was all it meant; old, old-fashioned and dead boring.

There was the definite sound of strangled cats and elephants’ farts coming from the guts of the hall. I wasn’t the only one who’d arrived early, except this lot had probably begged their parents to get them here at this hour. I tried to think positively. Chris was right. I just had to concentrate on the girl factor. I moved into the hall to do a recce … 

Oh no! Seriously bad! Seriously, seriously bad. There were no girls anywhere.

I was completely surrounded by blokes! And not just any blokes but the singing, performing, dancing kind who were willing to give up their weekends for the sake of their art. I scanned the room, wanting one glimmer, one spark of hope.

Where were the girls, the babes, the chicks, the hotties?

Nowhere!

Wall-to-wall blokes.

I looked over at the band. Yep, just as I had predicted. Year 7, 8 and 9 try-hard geeks. Even worse, junior try-hard geeks who didn’t know they were responsible for the strangled cat and elephants’ fart sounds I’d heard five minutes earlier.

I was two seconds away from making a really fast exit. I knew Mum would freak but I’d talk her around. There was no way I could survive this! Just as I was about to leave I saw some of the band nudging one another. Chris was right: all these younger guys seemed to recognize me. They’d probably heard about my punishment before I did. There was no way I could bolt after being seen. It would get back to Andrews and he’d be straight on the phone to Waddlehead or worse … my mother.

What can you do but try to act casual and make it clear you’re pissed off with being there? That part wasn’t hard.

Hey!

I turned my head ever so slightly, enough to acknowledge the little geek’s existence, but nothing more than that.

Aren’t you the guy who mooned the Lakeside bus last week?

I raised my eyebrow in response.

Everyone in Year 7 thinks you’re so cool. Not that many of them talk to me, but even on Friday …

I turned to face motormouth straight on. A bit of hero worship was OK, but if I didn’t find the off button soon I figured I’d blow the role model thing within two seconds of being in the hall. I located the sound at just above waist height. It was the geek from the bus stop. Staring at me with exactly the same eyes and exactly the same trusting expression. I checked out the rest of him. He could have been the poster boy for geek, minus the heavy brown glasses with milk-bottle lenses. He had a deadset bowl cut, what could only be Kmart jeans that fell to his ankles and school socks worn with ugly white sneakers. The kid was lost in a time zone all his own. No one would dress like that for real.

I turned away but he’d attached himself to my right elbow.

So you’re going to be in the band then?

Looks like it.

That’s great. There aren’t a lot of seniors. Actually, there aren’t any, apart from you.

I looked out beyond the orchestra pit and into the hall. Yep, the kid was right, I was surrounded.

It’s mostly just Year Sevens, Eights and Nines in the band. But we sound good. Brother Pat always says so. He thinks we sound as good as the band he plays in and he’s been playing for years.

He drew his first breath in thirty seconds, then hit me with: You can hang out with me if you don’t know anyone else.

The comment drew my head toward the kid like a magnet. I stared at him, looking for any trace of irony. There was none.

I think I’ll be right, mate, thanks.

He stared straight back. There was definitely something about this kid’s eyes … like they belonged to someone ancient. He wasn’t going anywhere.

I play the trombone. What instrument do you play?

I lifted up the case I held in my left hand. The guitar, mate.

My dad plays the guitar. My dad’s cool. He’s really cool.

I felt my head go down instantly. Winded like one of those destructo balls had slammed me in the gut. This type of stuff just comes up sometimes and grabs you by the balls. You never know when it’s going to happen and how to protect yourself. My silence must have had some sort of impact on the motormouth midget ’cause he actually shut up for three seconds. Just as the little guy was going to start up again I grabbed my guitar and looked around for Andrews. I knew I had to check in with him before he made a big deal of me being late.

I nodded in the little guy’s direction and he moved into a huge wave in return. I hoped for his sake his father was as cool as he said he was, because the kid was definitely going to need some help.