‘Mr Kelly — Neal. There are many teachers here who are supporters of Dan, who want the very best for him. Colin Gilbert, Frank Torma, they have all offered to work hard with Dan next year. They believe with effort and discipline he can do very well if he repeats Year Twelve.’ Again his eyes drill into me. ‘They believe in you, son, and I do too. But I need to know that you will commit to your studies, that you will give us the very best of yourself.’
‘My son has already given this school his very best.’
Dad’s words stun me. I can’t look at him, can’t look at Canning. Outside the window a cluster of rose bushes have fallen into wretched bareness. I can’t look at anyone; that would release the lump in my throat. I think of Coach, believing in me. That helps; fury overcomes shame and I almost blurt out, I don’t want his help, I don’t want anything from any of you. I don’t want your fucking pity.
‘And you are prepared to have Danny come back?’
‘Yes.’
I know my father is taken aback by Canning’s answer. This was not what he expected and he is lost for words. I know my old man, the argument he would have been rehearsing all the way over in the car, about how this college was all about the money, how it was going to dump me now that there was nothing more to gain from me, now that I was no longer part of the swim team, no longer winning medals. And I am shocked too. I thought they’d be glad to see the back of me. I expected it and I deserve it. No one wants a failure.
‘It will have to be Danny’s decision.’
‘I agree,’ says Principal Canning. ‘It has to be his decision, made in consultation with you and your wife as his parents. As I said, I realise these are exceptional circumstances, but I wanted you all to know that we are prepared to have Dan back.’
It is almost whispered, it sounds puny as it tumbles from Dad’s mouth. ‘Thank you.’ He wants to say something else, goes to form the words, but he’s shifting uncomfortably, like he doesn’t know how to say it.
Principal Canning clears his throat. ‘Of course, repeating Year Twelve is not covered by the terms of the scholarship. He will have to return as a full fee-paying student.’ Canning knows what is making my father shift uncomfortably in his seat. Canning can sense that now it is all about the money.
‘How much are we talking about?’ Now that it is out, Dad’s voice is calm, his tone gruff and somehow indifferent.
‘You can talk to Mrs Marchant about those details outside. She’ll be happy to take you through the fee structure.’
My father is sitting up straight, still, his hands on his knees. His voice is steel. ‘I asked how much.’
Principal Canning blinks and clears his throat again. ‘It is seven thousand, five hundred dollars a term. Twenty-two and a half thousand dollars for the year.’
My father rises and I stumble as I follow, catching my shoe on a corner of the carpet. My cheeks burn. I am doing the maths, I am working out the cost of their investment: twenty-two thousand, five hundred for each of the five years I have been here. Over one hundred grand — I’ve cost the school over one hundred grand. My cheeks are ablaze and I can’t look up. It is not that I despise myself — I know that feeling well and I know how to carry it. And it isn’t the shame, though that is part of it, part of me: my shame is always there, and so is hate, they are one with my blood and with my lungs. What is new, what sears through me now, is a clear understanding of my worthlessness. I am the debt that can never be paid off.
My father does now what he would not do before. He offers Principal Canning his hand. ‘Thank you.’
Principal Canning looks my way once more. I don’t hear his words, I have to turn away from that sympathy, from that lacerating pity.
My father and I don’t say a word until we walk through the school gates. And then I say, ‘Dad, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to repeat. Even if I fail, I won’t repeat.’
My father has stopped. He won’t hold me, he can’t; he and I live in that physical distance. But he is shaking his head. ‘Don’t worry, son. We’ll find the money, don’t worry about that. We’ll get the money.’
‘No,’ I insist. I won’t let that word go. ‘No. I don’t want to repeat, I want to start my life.’ And as I say the words, I drink in the air: I’m finished with school, I’m out of this place. A cold, shivering sweat breaks out, but I know I am right. I am terrified and thrilled. I want to start my life.
And then it goes, the euphoria vanishes. I realise I can’t see it. I have no vision of a life.
‘You don’t have to make a decision now,’ says my father gently, as we walk towards the car. We fall back into silence. I know that both of us are thinking about the money.
On Denmark Street, a small lime-green Hyundai brakes suddenly in front of me. My eyes leap to my rearview mirror, to my side mirror. There is no one to my left; I swerve, I overtake the stalled car and straighten. My father turns to me. ‘I was right. You’re getting to be a good driver.’
I am heading forward, the future is waiting. School has finished but there is no clear path ahead, nothing solid beneath my feet. I will just have to drive through. I accelerate, and speed into those shadows.
Friday 15 September 2000
His first beer, that tasted of earth and light, the touch of the first summer sun on wet ground.
His first bourbon, that was the taste of sugar and sulfur, the sting to the nose of toffee burning.
His first vodka, that was licorice; his first wine, fruit juice left out too long in the sun; his first rum, all he could taste was the Coke in it; and his first whiskey, that was fire. That was fire and heat.
'You better watch it, mate, you're getting a belly.' Bennie leaned across the table and patted Dan's shirtfront.
Omar snorted and that made Dylan and Herc laugh as well. Dan grabbed Bennie's arm, and twisted it. Not too hard, but hard enough for Bennie to grimace a little.
It was true, he was getting a belly. He had to run in the morning, he hadn’t run for three days. It was either run tomorrow or not drink beer for a week.
They were sitting outside the chicken shop at the South Preston Shopping Centre, in their white supermarket shirts and grey cotton pants. The remains of their lunch were scattered over the table. Omar tapped the end of his cigarette over an empty container, the ash mingling with the gelatinous dregs of soy sauce and oil. Dan was the only one who didn't smoke, he still couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd tried cigarettes and joints, he'd even sucked on a bong, but with every inhalation he could feel the poison coursing through his lungs and into his blood. He felt its pollution instantaneously. That wasn't the case with alcohol. With alcohol you didn't experience the corrosive effects of the toxins till the day after. That was the seduction of drink. It enticed you, it was deceptive. Even the fire of whiskey seemed medicinal, the shock of it, the jumpstart to the body.
Elena walked towards them, munching on a pie from the Vietnamese bakery. She stopped at their table. 'Are you watching the opening ceremony tonight?'
Elena, she just blurted out statements or questions, as if she resented having to speak. Even now she wasn't looking at anyone, was asking questions of the car park.
'Yeah,' said Bennie. 'We're watching it at my place. You wanna come?'
Dan looked down at his hands, examining the paper cut he'd got that morning, slicing open cardboard boxes. He hadn't told the guys that he wasn't going. There was no way he was going to watch that fucking opening ceremony.