Dan was whistling as he walked off towards the toilets. A Year Seven, sleek black hair, alabaster skin that had blossomed in hideous acne all over his cheeks, brow and chin, was rushing down the corridor. He tried to dodge Dan but the older boy stepped sideways, just a small movement but enough to make the younger boy crash into him. Dan's shoulder sent the boy spinning against the lockers. Everyone looked up at the sound of the boy slamming into the metal, at his howl of pain. Dan didn't look back, he was still whistling, his hands in his pockets as he made his way down the stairs.
He was no hero but they were scared of him. He was Psycho Kelly. None of them dared to take him on.
He was the only one in the toilets and as soon as he got in there he made his hand into a fist and smashed it hard against the hand dryer, enjoying the sound of the metal buckling. He punched the machine again. And again. And again. He'd scraped away skin from his knuckles, and drops of blood were forming along the mounds. Delighted at the damage done, at the sharp stinging pain, he brought his fist to his mouth, sucked at the blood. He imagined Wilco's face, imagined what it would be like to punch the boy, hard, like he'd punched the dryer. How good would that feel? To kick him, to get behind him and swing Wilco's arm right up and then to wrench it back, to hear the sound of bone cracking, so that Wilco would never swim again.
Dan slammed the cubicle door, which ricocheted and pounded three times. He pulled it shut and locked it, sitting on the toilet seat, breathing in and breathing out, trying not to imagine the adulation for Wilco, on the stage in his Australian team jacket, his shoes shiny, his tie neatly knotted. As he got to his feet with that smirk on his face, he'd be looking up and down the hall for Dan, searching for Dan's face amid the ceaseless cheering, the wild applause, looking for Danny Kelly, wanting to show him that it was he, Wilco, who was the strongest, the fastest, the best. It was he, Wilco, who was going to stand up on a podium, in Kuala Lumpur, to louder cheers, to more furious applause, when it should have been Dan up there. But he wasn't good enough, he wasn't fast enough or strong enough. He wasn't the best. Dan smacked his fist into the cubicle wall with such force that his head snapped back.
Coach Torma would be there, applauding Wilco, who might just be his first Olympian.
Don't you dare cry, you fucker, don't you dare cry. It would be better to kill himself than cry.
He didn't want to go out into that world in which Wilco was a hero. He'd rather stay in the toilets all day than face those boys who'd roared for Wilco. But soon he heard the approaching wave of boys as they flooded through the quadrangle, heard their shouts and laughter through the slatted panes of the toilet window, heard the clomping and scuffing of their feet in the corridor, the toilet door opening and boys pissing and shitting next to him, and the sound of water running. Dan opened the cubicle, washed his hands, making the congealed blood over his knuckles run again. He wet his hair, slicked it back, noticing the blur of bristle at his chin. Luke should have pointed that out, some teacher would call him on it, say he couldn't come to school unshaven, if it happened again there would be demerit points, again, and there would be detention. Dan sauntered out of the toilets, kicked open the door, slid his hands into his pockets, slowed his pace to look like he had all the time in the world. He had practised this walk in front of the mirror at home, had trained his body to walk in new ways, to move differently from that other body that belonged to Danny, that no longer belonged to him.
The prefects were walking together back to the school building. Martin should have been with them but he'd been caught with a cigarette last week, and that had got him demoted. But next week he would be back; the Taylors were always prefects, according to Martin, it was a family tradition. The school wouldn't dare punish a Taylor for too long.
He wished it were Martin he could have spoken to; Martin would have been thrilled to help him out, he'd have got off on the dare of it. But with Martin not there, it had to be Luke. Dan motioned to his friend and Luke waited for him.
'Hey, mate,' Dan whispered, 'I need a favour.'
The other prefects were watching. Dan glowered at them, wishing he could mouth an obscenity at them. But he couldn't afford to get into trouble, not at that moment. The look he gave them was enough. They turned away.
'What?' asked Luke.
'I'm going to wag today.'
'You can't.'
'I can. If you tell them at roll call that you've approved my doing VCE revision in the library. I'll be back at lunchtime. Promise.'
Luke shook his head.
'Mate, it won't be a problem.'
'And what if you get caught?' Luke's voice sounded younger, uncertain.
'Come on, mate, I won't get caught and you won't get into trouble.' Dan winked. 'Anyway, they won't expel you, you're their top student. Getting rid of you will fuck up their entrance scores.'
The uncertainty vanished from Luke's face. 'Piss off, Kelly.' He walked off, his arms crossed, striding down the quadrangle.
Dan glanced around quickly, looking out for a teacher, making sure there was no one there to see him. There was only a gardener, some new bloke. Dan had been at school long enough to know that the gardener didn't matter. He ran to the lockers.
Luke would do it for him, Luke would cover. He knew he could count on Luke.
He kept old t-shirts in his locker, with trackpants and sneakers, for when he used the gym at lunch or after school. He grabbed the clothes and shoes, bundled them in his arms, walking quietly down the corridor, then more purposefully towards the ovals. Once he got there he started to run.
There was a copse near the river, a circle of oak trees planted a century ago. It was where some of the boys went to smoke, where Dan went to escape. It was safer there than the banks of the river, which were patrolled by prefects and teachers.
Quickly Dan took off his school clothes and shoes, put on the gym gear, wrapped the bundle of his school uniform in a second t-shirt, and stuffed it into a hollow tree trunk. He breathed in and he breathed out.
Finally he was free. Wagging was the best feeling in the world.
Dan followed a path that kept to the river but was shielded by scrub and trees. It reached a bend and then climbed a small hill that rose to the railway tracks. There was an untidy gravel path that ran parallel to the track on one side and the imposing back walls of mansions on the other. One of the walls had broken glass cemented along its top. It was tempting, one day he wanted to scale it, just to prove he could do it. Even Martin would be impressed by that.
A small bridge crossed the railway lines and then he was in the suburbs. He walked up a narrow leafy street, crossed Malvern Road and was at Toorak station. There wouldn't be any teachers there, no one patrolled that far. He made his way to the end of the platform, hands in the pockets of his trackpants, the cold slicing into him. But he didn't let it bother him. The train arrived, he slipped into the last carriage and he was on his way to town.
He loved being in the city, the way you could disappear in the middle of the metropolis, the way no one bothered to look at him, how the traffic and crowds and noise had no distinct edges, how everything blended into itself so it was impossible to know where something began and where it ended.
Dan sauntered through arcades and alleys, in and out of shops. Time fell away. He wouldn't check his watch, he wouldn't let himself look up at the Town Hall clock, he'd trust his instincts, savour every moment. He didn't have to be anyone here, he could just move through the city, disappear.