The white boys stare at us from the pub. It’s Ethan and his mates. They sit on stools behind the railing of the packed pub and sip their beers from schooner glasses, keeping their eyes on us. Next to me, Kalyn stares back at them from behind the steering wheel, his mouth tucked at one corner and his eyebrows scrunched, while Jarny lights a cigarette in the back seat.
‘What you bastards lookin’ at?’ Jarny shouts. They just stare, then they laugh. And I just look to my lap, because there’s a cop car ahead of us, stopped on the other side of this red light. I know they’re watching us – the ute with all the black faces inside. My throat is drying, but I don’t want to drink from my bottle of Coke, in case the coppers think it’s a beer and pull us over.
The white boys go back to their drinks and banter as the light turns green and Kalyn eases off the brakes. I’d expected him to put his foot to the floor and spin the tyres, but he must have spotted the coppers too. We drive steadily past them, blasting our music, and start up the mountain out of town. In the side-view mirror I see the police car slow, then pull over to the side of the road. They spin around and now they’re coming, speeding up behind us. It’s Constable Rogers. I’d recognise those big ears of his anywhere.
‘No sudden movements, lads,’ Kalyn jokes as he watches the rear-view mirror. Jarny ashes his cigarette on the interior armrest of the door. The cops’ lights come on and spray red and blue into the car. Kalyn flicks on his blinker with a sigh and pulls over. My heart is pounding.
The doors of the police car open as Kalyn turns off the engine. Constable Rogers comes to Kalyn’s window with his breathalyser in hand. He peeks inside, with his clean blue uniform over his body and his hat on his head.
I’d expected him to put his foot to the floor and spin the tyres, but he must have spotted the coppers too.
‘Kalyn, Jackson and Jarny,’ he says, with such dissatisfaction. ‘What are you boys doing? Mouthing off at the fellas in the pub?’
‘Nah,’ Kalyn says, ‘just saying hello.’
‘Is that right?’ Constable Rogers says, his voice dropping an octave. ‘Seemed a bit to me like youse were trying to start trouble.’
‘Nope. No trouble,’ Kalyn replies.
The other copper approaches my side of the ute, red-faced, walking slow, eyes searching through the open windows until he stops by me, staring me down. Constable Rogers holds up his breathalyser to Kalyn. Kalyn breathes into it before the breathalyser beeps.
‘Looks like you’re all good.’
I feel such a relief come over my body, even though I know Kalyn hasn’t been drinking. ‘Have a safe drive, boys.’
The coppers walk back to their car. Kalyn starts the ute and we’re back on the road.
*
A car horn honks over and over, waking me. It’s Christmas Eve, and the morning sun is blinding when I open my eyes. I forgot to pull the fucking curtain across when I went to bed, and now I’m paying for it. Mum’s big body booms on the hallway floor, followed by Henry’s little rushing feet. As they creak down the stairs, he’s asking her if his cousins are here and she’s saying yes. I stagger to my clothes, pick them up off the floor and slide them on.
‘Jackson!’ I hear Mum call. I start downstairs. Aunty Pam is just inside the doorway, bags in her hands, wearing a purple top and shorts. All the kids run in from behind her, hugging Henry and cheering and yelling as loudly as they can. ‘My little sand-eater,’ Aunty Pam says. I go down to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘How’s your art going?’
‘I don’t really paint so much anymore,’ I say, looking to my feet.
‘Oh. Well, I got a boy who needs to do some art. You can help him out,’ she says, like I have no say in the matter, like she didn’t hear what I just said about not painting so much anymore. ‘Jackson, this is Tomas. He’s living with me for a little while.’
She turns to her side to reveal a black boy carrying more bags from her station wagon. He has messy curly hair that looks almost like dreads, like he’s never brushed it in his life. His skin is lighter brown than mine, but he has that Koori nose.
‘We’ll put Henry down here with the boys and you can take Henry’s room,’ Mum says to Aunty Pam. ‘And we’ll put the good mattress in Jackson’s room, so Tomas can sleep upstairs away from the kids.’
‘I don’t really paint so much anymore,’ I say, looking to my feet.
‘Who’s that?’ Henry asks behind me.
‘That’s Tommy. He just got out of jail,’ little cousin Bobby whispers, and I feel the strength of my eyebrows as they raise themselves. All the kids barge past Mum and me and race into the house.
Tomas lugs the bags to the doorway and places them on the floor. I extend my hand and Tomas takes it.
‘Nice to meet ya,’ I say.
‘You too.’
I stare at him in his blue polo shirt and sweatpants. He carries a backpack over his shoulders. The hairs on his face look spiky, and the hair on his head sweeps to the sides at his forehead and drapes over his ears.
‘Jackson, why don’t you take Aunty Pam’s and Tomas’ stuff upstairs?’ Mum asks.
Tomas nods to a duffel bag on the floor next to Aunty Pam’s purple travelling bag and I grab them and head upstairs. He follows, stepping heavily on the wooden stairs. I drop Aunty Pam’s bag in Henry’s room across the hall and place Tomas’ duffel bag against the wall in my room.
‘I’ll go get you the mattress,’ I say as he drops his backpack to the floor.
I race back down the staircase and search in the storage space underneath, finding it squeezed into the back corner. I pull it out with all my might. It’s thicker than those the kids will sleep on, and I’m annoyed as I drag it back up the stairs. I like having my own room. I hate sharing. What if I need to fart or something while I’m in bed? Do I just hold it in forever?
I slide the mattress across my carpet and lay it flat. Tomas drops himself onto it with a sigh. I fetch him a sheet and blanket and drop them onto the floor beside his mattress, then take one of my two pillows from my bed and hand it to him.
‘Make yourself at home,’ I say.
After a shower, I pass by my bedroom and stop there at the doorway. Tomas has kicked off his shoes and rolled onto his side, and he’s snoring away on his mattress. He’s not a quiet snorer, either, and it worries me to think he may snore all night. His face has fallen flat and still, and his hair is messing all over my pillow.
I want to wake him, ask him if he really just got out of jail, what he did to get in there. Maybe we could talk more, about random shit. But I just stumble down the stairs instead, ready for the craziness, already able to hear the kids chattering at full volume. An image burns itself into my mind, of Tomas lying there on the mattress. I think I was thinking something weird when I stared at him. I think I thought he was cute.
This is an extract from The Boy from the Mish by Gary Lonesborough (Allen & Unwin), available now. The Boy from the Mish is available now at your local independent bookseller.
