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  On the bank of the creek I baited the hand reel just the way Shaun’d taught me—up their arses and through their mouths!—and then I spun the end of the line round and round, faster and faster, till it was going so fast that it carved a big circle of grey into the air. I took aim and flung it out.

  Plop!

  The sinker shattered the glass-still surface and disappeared into the murk. I let the line fall and once I felt the sinker settle into the mucky bottom I sat on my arse, tuned out and waited for a bite.

  I gazed at the surface of the water and up to the choppy clouds and down to the twisted limbs of the gum and the rope swing hanging from the lowest bough. The swing was getting old now—threads frayed and probably close to snapping. Not many goes left, I reckoned. Shame. Shaun and I had had some fun times on it.

  I remembered our first goes on it when Shaun made the swing. He’d scrambled up the trunk, inched his way out along the long thick bough, tied up the rope and flung the end of it back to me. I swung out, barely clearing the bank, and was so chicken-shit when I was over the water I almost didn’t let go. Shaun’d been the opposite. He took the swing right up to the top of the bank, swung all the way over the swimming hole and disappeared into the branches of the camphor laurel on the bank on the other side. ‘Raah!’ he’d roared as he emerged from the tree, letting go of the rope and falling through the air in coffin position. Boosh went the water. ‘Yee-ha!’ went Shaun as he breached the bubbly surface.

  I sat for a while like this, drifting between thoughts and memories, pulled from one to another, until the line pulled tight.

  A bite!

  I sprang to my feet. I held my finger steady, waiting for

  another. I got one. Then another.

  ‘Yee-fucken-ha!’

  I’d hooked something.

  Whatever it was, it sure was strong. The fishing line cut into my hands, so I grabbed my digging stick and wrapped the line around it a few times and pulled.

  I slipped, and fell backwards onto the bucket. ‘Shit!’

  I stood up, kicked the crushed bucket into the water and dug my feet in. Pulled again. Harder, harder, until a shard of silver speared out of the water.

  A bass! A huge one too. Yeah!

  I yanked her up onto the bank. She flipped and flapped like she wanted to fight me, so I dropped my knee on her scaly side and grabbed a rock. I lifted it high and—smash!—brought it down on her head as hard as I could.

  I tore the hook out of her mashed-up cheek. Without the bucket I’d have to spear her to carry her home. Just like Shaun’d shown me, when we’d caught those catties and had nothing to carry ’em in, I pierced the pointy end of my stick through her gills on one side and out the other.

  I held her up. She was almost as long as my hand and forearm. Bigger than anything I’d ever caught. Bigger, I reckoned, than anything Shaun’d ever caught.

  I scrambled up the bank and looked across the flats. Straight ahead was the bushy slope that led home.

  I was keen to race up and show Mum. She’d be chuffed. Reckoned she’d still be out cold, but. And would probably be for a while longer. Probably best to keep her sleeping, I thought, and so I marched across the flats towards Dad and his caravan and his piles and piles of junk.

  Dad’s eyes widened and his thick grey brows almost launched off his leathery forehead. He slapped his thigh and whistled like a whipbird.

  ‘Whoa, Trysten! She’s a biggun, ain’t she?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Hazard a guess she’s the biggest you’ve caught from the hole.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Safe to say she’s the biggest anyone’s ever caught from the hole.’

  ‘Yep. Reckon so.’

  ‘What’d ya bait her with?’

  ‘Grub.’

  ‘Ya gonna cook her up?’

  ‘Yeah! For sure. Mum and I will eat her for tea.’

  ‘S’pose yer gonna fry her?’

  ‘Yep…probably.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what.’ Dad gestured to the empty camping chair opposite him. ‘I’ve got a tasty recipe that Mick passed on to me. Go on, take a seat and I’ll talk ya through it.’

  Mick lived over the ridge in the valley next to ours in a tiny shack not much bigger than our lounge room. He’d built it with timber from ironbarks he felled and milled all on his own. Sometimes Dad’d drive the Landy up along the fire-trails on the forestry land and over the ridge to visit Mick in his shack. Sometimes Mick’d come and visit Dad. Other than Mick, I was the only visitor, the only other arse in that camping chair. I reckoned Dad got pretty lonely, so I tried to pop down at least once a week and spend some time with him, even though most times he bored the pants off me and when he got his grump on he could really piss me off. I really wouldn’t have minded sitting down and gloating a bit today, but there’d been something in the back of my mind since I arrived at the caravan, tugging away at my head like the fish had been tugging at the line only minutes earlier. Something to do with Dad’s excitement about my catch. Something to do with Mum sleeping. Something to do with showing her the fish. Something to do with—yeah, that was it—a surprise!

  ‘Sorry, Dad. Got to get home.’

  Dad slumped, the springs in his camping chair and the joints in his back creaking at the same time. ‘Right, yeah…sure. Off ya go then.’

  ‘Yep. See ya!’

  I jogged across the flats, the speared fish over my shoulder, but paused at the bottom of the slope. I felt a bit sore at myself for leaving Dad hanging like that. I turned and cupped my hands over my mouth. ‘Oi, Dad!’

  He popped round from the other side of the caravan. ‘Yeah?’ The word hung in the air like a thistle seed, and he tilted his head back, waiting, as I searched for something to say. I thought I had nothing. Then I remembered.

  ‘Yeah…um…Mum still hasn’t heard from Shaun. No letters or anything yet, but reckons she will soon.’

  ‘Yep. Okay. Thanks, mate.’

  Dad waved—broad and high—but even from all the way across the flats I could see the rest of his body crumpling with disappointment.

  I crept down the hallway to the lounge room, holding the fish on the stick, and knelt behind the couch. Above my head the fan whooped the air. The radio blasted. Mum snored.

  I stood. I raised the skewered fish and dangled it over Mum’s chest.

  ‘Mum,’ I whispered. ‘Mum, look what I caught.’

  Out cold—whispering wouldn’t do. I was about to speak louder when the newsman said the magic words: And now to the conflict in Afghanistan…

  Mum’s eyes sprang open.

  ‘Aaaaaarrrrrgghhhh!’

  Hiiieeeya! Mum karate chopped the fish right across its belly. The fish tore from the stick, ripping its head open, and fell on her lap. Little chunks of goop splattered over the sheet. Mum screamed again and sat bolt upright. The fish tumbled to the floor, tail flicking like it was still alive and still wanted to fight. The radio fell from Mum’s flailing arms and crashed in front of the coffee table. Mum leapt up and away from the fish and gave me the fiercest glaring she’d given me in my whole life. Then she glared at the fish. Then back to me. Then back to the fish, which just lay on the floor, black eyes wide open and popping out as if it was more shocked and confused than Mum was.

  Well, I’d wanted to get her up and moving, but that may’ve been too much. ‘Oops.’

  ‘Oops?! Christ, Trysten!’ Mum shrieked. ‘What the fucken hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I squatted to take cover behind the couch and peeped over the top. ‘I thought you would—’

  She brought her index finger to her pursed lips. ‘Shhh! Shoosh now!’

  Her eyes darted. I followed the direction of her gaze. Something on the floor. The radio. Shit! I hadn’t even noticed that it had become detuned. All that was coming out of the speaker was crackle and fuzz.

  Mum scooped it up and quickly retuned it.

  ‘…that’s the end of our bulletin. Coming up next is Karen
Hunter with the local…’

  Oops again.

  Mum’s eyes narrowed. Her brow tightened. I thought she was going to pounce on me. But she didn’t. A noise held her steady—a cracking noise from above.

  We both looked up. The fan was still whooping and whirring, but now it was also making a thunk-thunk-thunk sound. It had tilted so much that as it spun the blades chopped the ceiling. Then the plaster behind the fan fitting began to crumble away and fall. A screw dropped and hit one of the empty scotch and dry cans lying on the coffee table—ding!—like a pellet from a slug gun.

  I flew across the room and flicked the fan dial off.

  I was too late. The fan ripped away from the ceiling, filling the room with a hissing, tearing, cracking noise as it spun on its way down—whoop whoop whop whop chop—like a wayward helicopter blade. It landed on the couch and spluttered and hissed while the blade struggled to spin. A final piece of cord whipped down like a striking snake and fizzed for a few seconds. Then silence fell.

  I stared at the carnage. The fan had landed right where Mum had been. The middle of the fan, the heaviest part with the motor in it, rested right where Mum’s head had rested just seconds earlier.

  Seconds earlier. Seconds earlier, and Mum’s head would have been just like the fish’s. Mum stared too, eyes wide as the dead fish’s, her mouth open. I reckon she was thinking just the same as I was. I don’t know how long we both stood there staring before she broke the silence with a ‘ha’. She didn’t actually laugh, she just said ‘ha’, like she wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite get there.

  ‘Ha,’ she said again and again, over and over. ‘Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.’ Then she did laugh properly—big spluttering chuckles. Her face went red. She fell to her knees.

  I looked at her. Then at the fan. Back to the fish, and then I giggled something fierce. My stomach cramped. My cheeks caned. I stumbled across the room, past the crashed fan and the mess, and stood closer to Mum. We laughed so hard we both fell to the floor.

  Shit, we had some fun, rolling round on the floor laughing our guts up and sucking in the smell of fresh bass and plaster dust and scotch and cigarette ash. We laughed till tears welled in our eyes and streamed down our cheeks.

  And, best of all, when Mum looked up she was beaming. She looked terrific. By far the best I’d seen her since Shaun’d left.

  3

  Ricky was in stitches—clutching his gut and bouncing up and down on the bus seat as we chugged along the pothole-ridden Findle Creek Road. ‘Holy fuck,’ he said when I got to the part about the fan falling and how Mum’s head had almost ended up all mashed and squishy like the fish’s. ‘That’s serious, brother.’

  ‘Yeah, guess so. Reckon it’s done her some good, though. She picked right up afterwards.’

  ‘Picked up? Yeah? That’s great news, brother. Great news.’

  ‘Yep. She reckons it was a sign from above. Says she’s gonna lay off the drink. She got up off the lounge and everything. Got back to cleaning and cooking, which she’s been slacking off on for ages.’

  ‘What’d ya do with it?’

  ‘Dragged it under the house. Might try and coax Dad up to have a go at fixing it next time Mum’s off at the shops.’

  ‘Huh? Nah, brother—not the fan, the fish! What’d ya do with the fish?’

  ‘Oh, yeah! Cooked it up, hey.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Shit yeah! Tasty as!’

  As we approached the third-last timber bridge along Findle Creek Road Ricky turned to face the front, sitting up straight in his seat. Then, as Josie—our old bus driver, who wore wraparound Terminator 2 sunnies and had hair like a pushbike helmet—eased the forty-three seater over the bridge, Ricky tucked a few of his black springy locks under the side of his cap, lifted the brim so you could actually see his dark brown eyes, and puffed out his chest like a rooster.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know why you keep bothering, Ricky. You don’t have a hope in hell with Jade.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Why the hell not?’

  ‘Jade only ever goes for seniors. Just like all the bloody rest of the girls in our year. They don’t want us. They want older fellas, Ricky.’

  ‘Yeah, but I am older. Sixteen next Jan! I repeated year two.’ He shook two fingers in front of my face. ‘Twice! Remember?’ ‘Ha! Great selling point!’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, guess that means you don’t have a hope in hell with Jessica either. Heard her tell Jade she turned fifteen just before moving here. Makes her closer to me in age, don’t it?’ I did the maths. Could never be sure with Ricky. Shit! He was right.

  ‘Ah, shut up!’

  ‘Ah, just joshing, brother. I got my eyes on Jade and Jade only. And hey, at least I’m trying. You ain’t said boo to Jessica since she started riding our bus.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I huffed. He bloody had me, but. A few weeks back Josie’d slowed the bus and stopped at the wrought-iron gate that led to the grand old farmhouse that no kid had been picked up from for years. Everyone looked down the aisle and over their seats to check out the new kid. I don’t think anyone checked her out for as long as me, though.

  She was hot. Hot as Jade, easily; just a different kind of hot. More natural. Tanned skin. Light brown eyes. Hair like the ocean—wavy and wild, sandy and sun-streaked. As she took the seat next to Jade, Ricky’d jabbed me and whispered, ‘What do ya say, Tryst? Would ya do her? Reckon I would.’ I’d snarled at him, mouthed, ‘Shut up.’ Wish I hadn’t, though, because then he wouldn’t’ve known I had the hots for her and wouldn’t’ve constantly hung shit on me for not plucking up the courage to talk to her.

  ‘Pussy,’ Ricky added, as the bus halted for Jade’s stop.

  ‘Dickhead!’ I knuckled him on his shoulder real hard, but he didn’t even flinch.

  Old Josie Helmet-Hair jerked on the lever and the doors flung open. Jade climbed on and strutted up the aisle like she owned the whole bloody bus. Straight blonde hair tied up in a swishy swashy ponytail. Face covered with make-up. And her skirt—Ah, that skirt!—wrapped round her silky smooth thighs like a tea-towel, riding up as she walked and almost, but not quite, showing what was underneath. If you were in the right place at the right time and were sneaky enough you could catch a glimpse of what was underneath. It was risky, though, like looking into the sun—best not to look too long. Jade was as psycho as she was hot.

  As she took her usual spot in front of us, leaning against the window and lifting her legs up onto the seat, Ricky, as always, tried to sneak a peek. He leant forward, rested his chin on the back of her seat, and leered over.

  ‘Mornin’, Miss Davidson.’

  Jade was straight onto him. ‘Oi, Ricky.’ She clicked her fingers twice. ‘Eyes up top!’

  One warning was all he’d get. If she caught him perving again she’d flick him in the forehead so hard it would make a tock sound like a rock being pegged against a brick wall. For a whole day Ricky’d have a mark on his forehead the size of a five-cent piece. He’d gotten that flick before. More than once.

  Ricky fumbled an apology and then got down to doing what he’d been doing every morning since Jade had broken it off with Jeremy Birch a few months back—chatting with her, asking questions, cracking jokes, trying his heart out to pull her.

  I left Ricky to it and gazed out the window as Josie hauled the bus off the dirt and onto the bitumen road that led all the way to town. The first few ks past the old farmhouses along Paddy’s Flat were smooth as, but once we passed Langer’s piggery (the smell of which sent everyone pegging up their noses) and climbed the ranges the bitumen road became so winding and so rutted with potholes that it was almost rougher than Findle Creek Road. The ride was made worse by Josie. She seemed to have got it into her head in her later years that she wasn’t driving a forty-foot bus filled with schoolkids, but a souped-up Subaru in a rally. Easy left! Sharp right! Whoooooaaaa! The seniors up the back swore and groaned as they played corners. The littluns up the front clung to their seats all pale-faced like they m
ight be about to bring up their breakfasts.

  As we wound down the range and past the mill Ricky said something that made Jade laugh. He’d made her laugh before, but this one had a different ring. More of a giggle than a laugh. A flirty giggle.

  Ricky turned to look at me, all chuffed and smarmy. Ha! Hear that?

  Jeez! I didn’t know how he was doing it, but Ricky was actually getting somewhere today.

  Right. That was it! I looked through the front window. Up ahead I could see the red roof of Jessica’s house, the camphor laurel-lined driveway, and the huge gum near the front gate that she’d be waiting under. Soon as she hopped on and took her seat I was going to say something to her. Something that’d make her laugh. I just didn’t have a clue yet what that was going to be.

  As the bus pulled up I took a page out of Ricky’s book, puffing out my chest, sitting up straight. I even went him one better—I took off my cap and placed it across my chest like some guy at a bush dance about to ask a girl for a twirl.

  Ricky leant away from me, looking me up and down. ‘Huh? What’s up with you, brother?’

  I didn’t answer, just locked my gaze on Jessica as she climbed on. She strolled up the aisle, rather than strutting like Jade. Tucked behind her ear was a sprig of white flowers. Ah, man! She looked more gorgeous than ever.

  ‘Hey guys,’ she said to Ricky and me as she swung in next to Jade.

  ‘Morning, Jessica!’ said Ricky, nudging me with his elbow.

  Jessica looked back over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows as if inviting me to speak.

  ‘Hi!’ I said, and willed myself to say something else, just a simple How’s it going? But, as Josie hauled the bus back onto the road and Jessica faced the front and started chatting away to Jade, my mouth just hung open like one of those clowns at the show.

  Shit! Why couldn’t I think of anything to say? So far, from the dribs and drabs I’d picked up by eavesdropping on their morning conversations I’d learnt a bit about Jessica. Back in the city her mum worked as a lawyer and her stepdad, Paul, was a well-paid public servant. But despite their money and holidays and their nice house they weren’t happy, or were, in Jessica’s words, majorly friggin’ stressed out. So they thought a move to the country might fix things. Paul scored a role in Big Town, manager of the Shire Council, and Jessica’s mum picked up some work with the solicitors in Small Town. Jessica wasn’t keen at all to leave her friends and her whole life behind and so she didn’t say a single word to her mum for the whole two weeks before they moved and the whole two weeks after. So far Jessica reckoned Small Town was pretty average but our school was better than the private one she went to in the city, which was full of some real snobby bitches.