‘You Alright, Boy?’

I cracked Zaydrick for getting smart to me for the millionth time. He had it coming. But maybe I shoulda gone easy on him, ‘specially since the cops fished his dad out of Henderson Creek last month. Mum says we’re good at Should-ofs – me and my family. Now, my hiding’s gonna go viral on TikTok.

I boost home and take a bag of frozen veg – the only food that sticks around in our freezer – and I chuck it on my knuckles. I shove La’dre’s bedroom door open. The big bro is chugging Rum and Coke and wasting Russians on Call of Duty Modern Warfare. He’s chilling on his scody beanbag til he turns 17. No school will take him cos he nicked his DP’s car. Twice.

‘Couple of one-twos?’

‘Nah, uppercut. To the jaw.’

‘Sa-vage.’

La’dre says he’s doing Level 1 on Te Kura cos that’s what you gotta have to join the army. His tabs tell a different story: Something about helping in Ukraine. Some pirated Tarantino movie. PornHub.

‘They can’t stand you down if you wasn’t on school grounds.’

‘I know, dumbass.’

My name’s Manny Montoya McGregor. It don’t take no genius to work out what else got three Ms. And Zaydrick’s middle name is Blu. So…

La’dre asks, ‘Did you bend your knees and turn your hips?’

He’s schooled me in bag routines for ages, and my fists are pretty tough but it feels different hitting a face. My hand’s purpled-up bad. The bag of veg is getting drippy so I lob it out the window into the neighbour’s.

***

The day Dad got cuffed in front of our place, my buddy Ramon, he didn’t swoop in like some OT worker with a catfish smile, ponging like the bloody perfume department of Farmers. Me and him been hanging out since he came from the Philippines in Year 5. The bro wears legit Air Jordans, plus he’s a low-key Pokémon king, plus he hustles Raro behind Room 15 for seven bucks a bag when the duty teachers aren’t around. My man Ramon, he got the rizz.

When I told him Dad nicked some old fullah’s card and pay-waved the hell out of a liquor store, Ramon just said, ‘Ah shit, man,’ which is all anyone can say really.

Me and Ramon were trying to land a Kickflip McTwist at the skatepark on Lincoln and Zaydrick rocked up just in time to watch me wipe out on the halfpipe. Sky, ground, sky, ground. I was curled up in the middle of that concrete bowl. Knees scratched. Elbows bruised.

Zaydrick laughed. Then he got cheeky about me liking Ramon’s sisters. So I made him chomp on his own tongue. He just gawked at me, the dickhead, spitting blood and snot.

I gapped it after that. Board tucked under my arm. Schoolbag swinging. I sprinted through the traffic all the way down Pomaria Road.

Number 53; our pad. That rusty roof. Those patches of red paint slapped over white so the whole unit looks like Joker in rehab. There’s a flyscreen on the door what looks like a massive cheese grater. Don’t know how come we bother since all the bugs are already inside. 

***

La’dre looks up from his screen. ‘Better start praying, little bro.’

‘Pfft,’ I say. ‘You should get that app.’

‘What app?’

‘Shaddaap.’

I head into the kitchen. There’s a breadbag on the bench. One I scored dumpster diving at Pak ‘n’ Save. It feels like a rock so I saw off a hunk and chuck it in the skillet with a flick of butter.

Toaster don’t work too good after Dad swung it at Mum once. By the cord.

The stovetop heats up and roaches scurry up the walls. Ramon says these crawlies can survive nukes. Guess that’s good news for Zaydrick – at least he got a chance if Putin starts hitting them red switches.

Mum’s asleep on the couch. I pull a grey blanket over her. We leave her alone on Fridays.

I boot up Dad’s ancient laptop to watch a POV firefight in Ukraine from the Chosen Company – some channel La’dre subscribed to. You have to crank the volume so you can hear the audio over the fan. One day it’ll just become a puddle on the couch. Or better – burn the house down.

I scrape some Marmite onto the bread and plug in some headphones. We don’t normally lock the door cos nothing’s worth stealing. But tonight, the thought of Zaydrick makes me turn the key.

Outside, the sensor light goes on.

***

On Sunday, Ramon invites me to church. Reckons there’s some feast day thingy. He says there’ll be a pig at his place afterwards with crispy skin.

I hoon past the school on my scooter. One time, when Dad was a student, he got speared on one of the gate spikes and hung there till the fire brigade came and cut the bar. He lost a shitload of blood and some teacher lost a laptop.

Gee. All the lessons we never learned.

I ride the long way round Rathgar cos the dairy owner got some blurry photo of me on his wall of fame. Then I bus from the start of Swanson Road. Not long enough for the driver to kick me off for not tagging on…far enough to dodge Zaydrick’s house. 

I’m a Maths Stanine 8. Problems don’t scare me. 

At church, I sit with Ramon and his family. I don’t get what the guy in the dress is on about and I don’t understand how come Mary looks like Snow White, but somehow the smell of candles makes me think of birthdays.

There’s a picture of Jesus on the wall. Two beams of light are shining from a stab wound in his side – red and blue. It’s all I can look at. I don’t know why.

The feed at Ramon’s after church takes me back. The hot spit of that crackling and I’m five again up north. Me and Ramon are sharing a Sprite.

‘Are you coming to school tomorrow?’

I shrug.

‘Zaydrick’s gonna beat your ass.’

‘F… ‘im.’ Then we crack up cos we both know I’m scared shitless.

Ramon’s sisters are peeling banana leaves off lumps of rice. There’s Niña who reckons she’s all that cos she got her driver’s licence. Then there’s Darling, or is it Darlene who loves drama and spends study periods posting reels of her unboxing shit from Cotton-On.

‘Ramon told us about your dad,’ says Darlene. She cops a kick from Niña. Ramon looks at the ground and fiddles the widgets on his crocks.

‘Ah yep,’ I say.

‘Do you get to see him soon?’

‘Doubt it.’

Both the sisters look at me like I got cancer.

‘Need a hug?’ asks Niña

‘Hell no,’ I say. I try not to look em in the eye.

Darlene looks at Niña and says ‘He does.’

I pretend to wrestle as the two sisters sandwich me between their bodies. But it’s alright, actually. Sort of like wearing mum’s favourite Tupac sweatshirt with the hood drawstrings pulled in.

***

When I get home, the street lights are on. La’dre’s walking around smoking one of mum’s Marlboro Lights. The dumbass got this idea they saved him from catching Covid. The burning end is like a laser dot in the dark. He chucks me a phone that’s greasy from his paru hands.

‘Who dis?’ I ask. But La’dre just stomps off inside.

I wake up the screen and tap it onto speaker phone.

‘Uhm, hi?’

‘Manny? It’s Dad.’

‘…’

‘You there, boy?’

‘Mhm.’

‘So…how’s school?’

‘Alright.’

‘You fighting?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You winning?’

‘Yep.’

There’s a long pause on the line. In the house I can hear the kettle boiling.

‘Hey Manny?’

‘Yeah Dad.’

‘I’m out. Your dad’s out.’

He says he wants to meet me at McDonald’s on Lincoln. He says tomorrow after school. He says I can order anything I want. I don’t got any funny shit to say and I hate awkward silence, so I hang up before he does.

I go inside and pour what’s left of the boiling water into a carton of instant Kim Chi Soup. La’dre’s in his room already and he’s playing the Down the Rabbit Hole mission. Snow. Bombed-out buildings. Boobie traps.

La’dre gets KIA’ed by a frag grenade and throws his controller at the wall. He punches me in the leg and I drip a little soup on his shorts.

‘Can you drive me to Maccas tomorrow?’ I ask, swapping the carton to the other hand and wiping my fingers on his pillow.

‘Ask mum, gee.’

‘It’s to see Dad.’

‘Good luck, little bro.’

‘You don’t gotta stay.’ Me and him both know I could walk. But I don’t like the idea of getting jumped by Zaydrick on the way.

‘Giz your noodles. And I’ll do it.’

***

I dibs one of those high stools so I can see the carpark and the Zebra crossing. La’dre is all fidgety and keeps checking his phone. I tell him not to be so ADHD.

In the morning, I messaged Ramon on Fortnite to say I’m not coming to school. Not that Mum knew. My mind did more laps of the bloody park than my body.

A big screen is playing a rerun of the Wahs vs Melbourne Storm game. La’dre orders me a Coke Float and takes off. Says he can’t hang around all night.

So I wait til even my clothes smell like fries and fake cheese. I’m good at killing time. Some little kid – he been crying since I got here, and the soft serve machine broke, got fixed, then broke again. There’s this weird buzz in the air, like the lights are tired. I count three birthday songs. Two rounds of the mop bucket. The place starts to empty out. Car lights come and go. Every time the door opens, my stomach flips.

My Coke Float’s just ice now.

But, Dad? Nah. He don’t show up.  

The screen suddenly switches to the news. It don’t got sound – just pictures. The Russians blew up a playground in Ukraine. Nine kids are dead. The camera shows a huge pile of flowers and teddies, and old ladies crying and a big hole.   

Tears are running down my face. ‘How can he do this,’ I say over and over.

Some guy sitting near me in high vis shakes his head. ‘Shirtless Kremlin idiot,’ he says, spitting mayo. Then he looks at me. ‘You alright, boy?’

I bolt. My heart’s thumping like La’dre’s subwoofer and I don’t stop till I hit Number 53. I tug the side gate open so hard it bounces back and hits me in the hip. I rush inside and I grab Dad’s duffel bag – the one mum packed for him. It’s full of ripped singlets, two pairs of grey trackies, his manky Raiders hoodie. I drag it outside and dump it all in the driveway.

I pull out Dad’s Zippo lighter and flick it three times before it sparks. I drop it on the pile of clothes. The flames don’t roar like in the movies. But next minute the clothes curl and bleed pools of plastic. I sit down and hug my knees.

That’s when I hear jandals on gravel.

Zaydrick.

Hoodie up. Fists bunched. Looks mean AF. His jaw is clenched, and I reckon I see his hand twitch. But then, when he looks at what I done, he drops the hard-arse act.

I turn and face my little laundry barbecue. I’m ready for a right hook.

But he don’t swing. Instead, he plonks his butt down. Real slow.  

Sits.

I’m pretty sure he’s shaking. Or maybe it’s just me. When the wind blows the flame spits blue. Then red.

It’s weird, but me and Zaydrick…we talk. About Stan Walker, and the Pitbull at Number 17 that bit the Community Connector guy from Attendance West, and the new Tongan security fullah at Westcity, and weird food combos, and shit that don’t got much to do with anything.

A howl. Somewhere, cats are scrapping.

I don’t know why I’m crying.

Probably he don’t know neither.