The phone rang and his mother answered it. She called out, ‘It’s for you.’
‘How do you feel, champ?’
He swallowed his toothpaste, coughed, grimaced at the burning in his throat. ‘Pretty good I think—’
Demet interrupted, ‘We’re all so proud of you. Boz reckons he’s going to tag your name all over Keon Park station. You’re the champion under-sixteen two-hundred-metre freestyle king! How does that feel, Mr Kelly, how does that feel?’
‘Good, I guess.’
‘Good, you guess? Dickbrain, it’s fucking excellent. Are you free Saturday night? We want to take you out, kiss your arse, rub your nob for good luck.’
‘You’re gross.’
‘You’re retarded.’
The old schoolyard insults made him giggle like a little kid. Then there was a strange awkward silence. Dem’s voice rushed in to fill it.
‘So Bell Street Macca’s on Saturday?’
Macca’s on Saturday. Taylor would be in stitches, Scooter would be on the floor. He could hear them: They’re taking you to Macca’s? To celebrate? Are you serious, fucking Macca’s? He didn’t want that thought, didn’t want Demet to ever know that he could have such a thought.
‘Yeah, yeah, that’s good, Macca’s.’
‘All you can eat, hero.’
He put down the phone, caught a glimpse of the TV. They were playing the race again. Over and over and over. The hero and the loser.
At Flinders Street he fell in with a group of boys from his school but none of them said a thing about the day before, no one asked him about the championships, no one even mentioned Perkins winning gold in the fifteen hundred, even though it was on the front pages of all the papers. No one asked him about his swim. He shrank into a corner of the carriage. So he’d won a pissy all-Australian under-sixteen swimming contest. So fucking what. That wasn’t being Perkins; being Perkins was something a million miles away.
He lagged behind the other boys as they walked from the station to the school. Luke was standing in a crowd and he peeled off and came over to wrap an arm around Danny, but even he didn’t say a thing.
He could see Taylor and Fraser, and Scooter and Wilco and Morello all huddled together. Taylor said something and they all laughed, of course they laughed. But didn’t they know that Taylor came third? Didn’t they care that he was a loser?
Danny went into the Great Hall for assembly. He didn’t hear the morning prayers, didn’t hear Principal Canning ponce on about this great school this and this great school that. It didn’t matter what medals Danny won. They didn’t want him, he didn’t belong there.
But then Luke was shaking him, grinning, pointing him towards the podium. And Principal Canning was looking down at Danny, looking straight at him and clapping. Luke pushed Danny into the aisle and then everyone was clapping, the juniors and the seniors, even the teachers, everyone was applauding and then they were starting to cheer, the whole school was shouting out his name, Danny Kelly, Danny Kelly, Danny Kelly! His school was shouting out his name. He was walking towards the stage and one of the seniors, Cosgrave, held out his hand and Danny shook the older boy’s hand, and then another prefect, Radcliff, came forward and Danny shook Radcliff’s hand. His name was thundering through the Great Hall and as he climbed the steps to take his place next to Principal Canning he looked down to see Luke jumping up and down, cheering like a maniac, like it was the proudest moment of his life, and all the boys, all the teachers, were standing, stamping their feet, cheering and clapping. Coach was there, looking stern, but he too was standing, he too was clapping. Danny searched the sea of faces, looking for Taylor; he was shaking Principal Canning’s hand but all the time he was trying to find Taylor, and when he did spot him, Taylor winked and raised his arms, clapping above his head, and then called out, so clearly and so loudly that he could be heard above all the other cheers, ‘Good on ya, Danny Kelly. Go, Barracuda!’
Danny froze. Tsitsas took up the call, and so did Wilco, so did Scooter, and now they were all yelling, Barracuda! Danny wondered, was this an insult? Had it all been planned? He felt helpless, standing there next to Principal Canning. There was no way possible for him to give it back.
‘You psycho.’ Taylor’s voice again carried above the din. ‘You dangerous crazy psycho! You barracuda!’
And Tsitsas and Wilco, Scooter and Fraser, they took up the chant.
Barracuda. Barracuda.
And the rest of the boys joined in.
Barracuda.
And even Coach, even Frank Torma was calling it out.
Barracuda.
Calling it out, clapping, stamping, cheering. All cheering for him.
‘Barracuda!’
‘Danny Kelly!’
‘Barracuda!’
‘Danny Kelly!’
Then he felt it. Then it really meant something.
That afternoon, as Danny was getting ready for training, Frank Torma came into the locker room. He walked past the others and went straight up to Danny, who held out his hand, grinning.
Torma just looked at it. ‘Where were you this morning?’
Danny’s hand hung limply, just hung in nothingness.
The Coach didn’t give him time to answer. ‘There are no excuses for missing training. Got it?’
‘I got it,’ mumbled Danny, letting his arm fall.
‘And what happened in the relay yesterday? Did you give it your best effort? Did you give your team your all?’
The blood rushed to Danny’s face. He’d been feeling so good, he’d been feeling so high, and now his skin was on fire and his body was ice. Coach had made him ashamed.
That shame made him look up, made him stare Frank Torma right in the face. Give it back, send it back a thousand times stronger.
No more ice, then, just the fire, but it no longer burned. ‘I think I did good,’ he answered, slipping out of his jocks. ‘Yeah, I reckon I gave it my all — it was the others who weren’t any good.’
Come on, hit me.
Hit me.
Come on.
Then Coach made a sound, deep and dirty, right from the very centre of his body, the sound of spitting. It was so full of disgust and so repellent that Danny flinched. He hadn’t spat, but Frank Torma had made his point.
The Coach snarled at all the boys as though he detested them, ‘Get in the pool. Now!’
He was kicking. Barracuda. Breathing in. Fury. The water parted for him. Barracuda. Breathing out. Fast. The water shifted for him. He breathed in. Barracuda. The water obeyed him.
Dangerous. He breathed out.
~ ~ ~
I HAVE COMPLETED THREE CONSECUTIVE NIGHT shifts, two I was rostered on for, one that I filled in as a favour to Barry. I am looking forward to the long weekend, or rather my version of a weekend. It is Tuesday morning, dawn has just been overwhelmed by the fierce sun rising in the east, and Hassan, the old Sudanese gentleman who runs the Half Moon Cafe in the mall, is hosing down the footpath outside. He hasn't opened up yet but he's brewed me a coffee anyway, and I sip it gratefully, huddled under the shop awning, the mug keeping my hands warm. It is the final week of the semester break and I don't have a shift at the halfway house till Saturday afternoon. For the next three days there are no assignments due, no one I have to feed, no one I have to bathe or clean up after. It feels like freedom.