He disappeared into the words until the final bell rang and the chairs scraped back on the wooden floor and Dan remembered he had to fight. He had to fight and he had to win.
He told Martin but didn't dare tell Luke.
Martin said, 'OK, got ya,' and whispered to some other boys.
At the lockers Dan carefully took out the blue finch plate and showed it to Martin. 'This is for Emma, for her birthday.'
Martin was surprised. 'You remembered her birthday?'
'Yeah, of course.'
Martin looked at the plate, then raised an eyebrow. 'Where did you get it from?'
Dan had to stop himself from blurting out that he'd taken it. It would have impressed Taylor, but Emma couldn't know; he'd be ashamed if she were to find out.
Martin put out his hand. 'I'll give it to her.'
Dan held the plate tight against his chest. 'Nah, I'll give it to her myself. I thought I might come home with you tonight, after the fight.'
Martin stiffened. 'She won't be there.' His tone was surly, annoyed. 'She doesn't even live with us anymore, she's got her own place.' He reached out again for the plate. 'I'll give it to her when she comes for lunch on Sunday. OK?'
Dan didn't want to let go of it. It was his gift to her, he wanted to hand it to her and see her face when she opened the wrapping; he'd get some at the newsagent tomorrow, some gold paper, that was what the present deserved.
'I'll come by on Sunday then. What time?'
'Jesus!'
Dan didn't understand why Martin was so exasperated, why he slammed his locker shut.
'Don't you get it?' Martin said, almost mumbling, not looking at Dan. 'Don't you get it, even after all these years, that you can't just come around? That's not how it's done.' Taylor made a joke of the last five words, squeezed them out so they sounded like a joke. 'You haven't been invited.'
Dan thought, So invite me. Then he remembered Mrs Taylor dropping him off after their weekend at the beach. 'Your mum said that I was always welcome at your house.' He could remember her very words: Danny, you are always welcome at our house.
Now Martin wasn't annoyed, he just rolled his eyes. 'She was just being polite, you dickhead. Don't you get it?' And this time he snatched the plate away. 'I'll give it to Emma on Sunday. I'll even wrap it for you, how's that?'
Dan wanted to grab the plate, to raise it high and drop it so that it smashed into a million pieces.
The boy he was to fight had his gym gear on. Dan was going to fight barechested; he couldn't afford to tear his shirt. He turned away from the two groups of waiting boys, boys from both schools, and stripped off his uniform, embarrassed about all the filthy hair.
The boys started clapping and the other side started one of their sports chants, and Tsitsas and Martin answered with one of their own. They kept it down, in case someone heard.
I'm the toughest, Dan told himself, I'm the strongest. He had to win. He reminded himself: no biting, no kicking, nothing shameful. He couldn't win by being dishonourable. He planted his feet, raised his fists.
The other boy punched him, fast. It took him by surprise; he didn't feel the pain of it but it made him stumble and fall. The chanting had stopped. He scrambled to his feet, grateful that the other boy hadn't come flying, that he'd given him the chance to get up. So Dan ran towards the boy, slammed into him and put him on the ground, but Dan didn't wait, Dan just crashed onto him so his weight was fully on the boy's chest. The boy was calling out, 'Off me! Off me!' but all Dan did was push his knee harder into the boy's chest. He raised his fist and then jabbed, quickly, three times. He wanted to punch hard, oh how he would have liked to break the boy's jaw and nose and teeth, and he knew he could have, one for Torma and one for Wilco and one for Mrs Taylor, but he held himself back. He stayed on top of the boy, but told himself to stay cool, it was all over.
And it was. The boy was saying, 'Just get off me, OK? You win, just get off me.'
Martin came up and helped Dan to his feet, lifting one of his hands high in the air. And then his friends were singing the other school's song while the defeated boys slunk off; they sang at the top of their lungs, not caring who heard them now, but instead of the verses being about pride and honour and history they were singing of pervert homo priests and nympho nuns. Martin was still holding Dan's hand high and he started to chant, 'Barracuda, Barracuda,' but Dan tore away from his grip and faced his friend.
'Don't. Fucking don't.'
'Sure,' smiled Martin, watching Dan get dressed. 'Whatever you want, you fucking psycho.'
As they walked out of the park, Martin had his arm around Dan's shoulder. It felt both heavy and light. He didn't understand how he could want Martin's arm to stay there and how he would also just love to punch it off. Dan was smiling as the boys praised him, but he wasn't satisfied. He'd won but it didn't feel like anything. He'd won but it wasn't worth anything.
Next morning, at the newsagent, getting ticked off by the owner for being five minutes late, Dan couldn't stop asking himself why Coach would have made the offer he did, why he would even bother with him. And then it came to him. Coach no longer believed in him, Coach knew that the other Danny was gone. What Coach was feeling was pity, that's what it was.
That was all Dan was worth. Pity.
Dan hated the man for his pity, and wished him dead; and just for the tiniest of seconds, that childish and malevolent thought warmed him. Then the shame returned in an icy rush.
At the end of his shift he balanced the till and locked up. He thought back to saying to Martin, I'll come around, and Martin answering, You don't get it, that's not how it's done. He meant that he and Dan came from different worlds, he meant that Dan was ignorant and impolite. He meant, thought Dan, that I am slovenly.
The word was ugly. But that was what he was. Shame ran through him again, as sharp and searing as boiling water. Then the cold came back, and wrapped around and froze his heart. That cold too was searing.
~ ~ ~
‘YOU’RE GETTING TO BE A GOOD driver.’
It feels good to hear Dad say that, as he punches on the car stereo buttons, trying to find a song he likes. The AM/FM radio on Mum’s Datsun works but the CD player is stuffed, it hasn’t worked for a year. Whenever we get into the car, Mum says, ‘I don’t know what happened to it. One day it was fine and the next it just stopped working. Stupid shitbox.’
If Regan and I are in the car with her when she says that we don’t dare look at one another in case we lose it and crack up. What Mum doesn’t know is that last summer Regan and two of her mates were in the car, not even driving, too young for their Ls. They were bored, just hanging out in the car, playing music, and Regan stuck a two-dollar coin in the CD slot, just for a laugh, for something to do. It got stuck and the CD player has never worked again.