Henry Hamlet's Heart Page 3

  ‘He then proceeded to dramatically announce that he was drunk – no shit, Sherlock – and aim his vomplosion all over Willa Stacy’s boots.’

  Ems claps a hand over her mouth, barely muffling peals of laughter.

  ‘I didn’t aim at her!’ I burst out indignantly. ‘She was just, very regretfully, in the … projectile trajectory.’

  Len chuckles. ‘She called me this morning to ask where you live so she can send a bill to replace her boots. Sounded very unimpressed.’

  ‘Understatement of the year,’ Emilia says. ‘She posted something on Facebook last night about the two of you needing to be institutionalised. There was a photo too.’

  I blanch.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she assures me. ‘You can’t really tell it’s you.’

  ‘“Can’t really” or “can’t”?’

  ‘Relax,’ Len says. ‘It’s not like the teachers even know what the internet is.’

  ‘Wait. Did you give her the address?’ I ask.

  He nods.

  ‘Len!’ Ems chides.

  ‘For the local tip,’ he says. ‘She did not find it funny.’

  I put my face in my hands. ‘I’ll be a social pariah now, won’t I?’

  ‘I think that ship has sailed and crashed already,’ Len says.

  Ems’s mouth twists to the side. ‘Willa’s calling you Spew Grant.’

  ‘Oh excellent. Everyone’s gonna think I’m a loser!’

  ‘Nobody at school really cares what Willa thinks, apart from her minions,’ Ems says. ‘Plus, everyone already knows you’re a loser.’

  Len chokes back a laugh.

  Traitors.

  ‘Chin up.’ Len pats the back of my chair, and heads inside.

  I sip my lethal affogato broodingly. It’s good, damn him. We watch for a minute as Len serves people, then scoots over to the retro coffee machine.

  ‘It’ll blow over,’ Emilia says.

  ‘Mmm.’

  I wish I didn’t care what people thought as much as I do. I try to put last night out of my mind. Ems is right – both of our schools have upwards of nine hundred students, so there’s always a fresh story, and the news cycle is fairly quick.

  ‘I am so not emotionally ready for this term,’ she says in an obvious attempt to distract me.

  ‘I know. Me either.’

  ‘Have you thought more about what you want to do next year?’ she asks tentatively. If a subject can still be called ‘tentative’ when it comes up every time you talk to someone.

  I press my fingers to my forehead. ‘I don’t know. I still think maybe Journalism. Gran’s pushing hard for Arts.’

  ‘Just because that’s what she lectures in doesn’t mean it’s all there is to study,’ Ems points out.

  ‘Telling her that only makes the pushing more aggressive.’

  Ems leans her chin on the heel of her hand. ‘I’m actually shitting it a bit. I have to keep all my grades if I’m going to get the marks I need. This term feels impossible.’

  She’s wanted to study Law forever. She’ll get in, no question. I tell her so.

  ‘Your faith in me is unfounded.’

  ‘What do you mean? I found it in the primary playground.’

  ‘Corny to the level of actual corn.’

  I stick around after Emilia leaves, pleasantly caffeinated. I watch Len as he works, one lip tucked as he steams milk and swirls it into mugs, each movement careful and precise.

  I stay until it’s almost closing time, customers tapering off down the gold-licked street until I’m alone, pretending to read the paper. The other staff don’t comment; they’re used to cleaning up around me.

  Len shuts the till and comes over with a takeaway cup in hand.

  ‘Reserve?’ he asks. ‘I don’t wanna go home yet.’

  ‘Yeah. Okay.’

  The Reserve is a bush track in the back of the next suburb over. It’s a bit Tarzan for me, but it is kind of peaceful.

  We walk down my street and to the main road, crossing at the lights. The weather’s indecisive, sun spilling on my face but cutting wind pulling at my jacket.

  When we get to the top of the big hill we stop and look at the rows of pastel-coloured Queenslanders map-spread below. Beyond them the skyline’s clear enough to see the whole city dotted on it like an outstretched hand, poking skyscraper fingers up into blue.

  Once the path turns to dirt Len walks several metres ahead as usual, stopping to snap pictures and – occasionally – wait for me. The traffic noise is swallowed by gum trees and birds.

  The path overlaps with the trees’ exposed roots and I concentrate on my Vans to keep them from twisting out underneath me.

  ‘I’ve texted her that you had a pre-existing, severe stomach issue,’ Len says when I catch up with him.

  I squint at him in slanting green light. ‘What?’

  ‘Willa. You were worried about your cred, right? So, sorted.’

  ‘Not sure “guy with vom disorder” is that much of an improvement on being a lightweight,’ I point out.

  His eyes crinkle. ‘Probably not. But at least she’s not as pissed off.’

  ‘Great. Life’s never looked better for me.’

  Len gets a picture of swaying leaves above us.

  ‘You,’ he pronounces, ‘need to loosen up a bit.’

  ‘Says you. I’ve got fourteen weeks of trying to milk B-pluses into As coming up, and a low-budge dance to organise. Plus, camp. My soul’s probably gonna fragment by the end of it.’

  ‘Have actual experiences,’ Len continues. ‘Not just in your head all the time.’

  ‘“Experiences”?’ I raise an eyebrow suggestively.

  He shoves my shoulder and walks ahead again before I can get him back. ‘Life experiences, douchebag. Experiences with a capital E.’

  ‘I don’t really think—’

  The toe of my shoe snags on a rogue stick. I throw my arms out and wobble sideways, before crashing down hard and skidding into a ditch.

  I lie on my back for a minute, stunned-blinking at clouds I can’t fully see.

  Len’s shoes crunch across dry rocks and appear next to my head. ‘Genuinely, cannot take you anywhere.’ He holds out my glasses.

  ‘Shut up.’ I snatch them off him and scrub dirt off my cheek. ‘Who the hell put that there? It’s a hazard! Nature is a hazard.’

  Len leans down towards me and wraps his fingers around my forearm. He pulls until I’m upright, with my dust-covered legs scrambling like Bambi.

  ‘I think you’ll survive.’

  ‘Barely. I definitely tasted death for a second.’

  ‘That, Hamlet,’ he grins, the sun hitting his teeth, ‘is how you know you’re alive.’

  3

  The first day back at school arrives too quickly. I snooze my alarm twice, have a shaving-related mishap and end up leaving twenty minutes late.

  My car’s still full of holiday takeaway containers when I barrel into the driver’s seat at 8:10. It’s a fourth-hand and ancient Pulsar Dad got for me to learn in, because the paintwork hides all manner of sins.

  I have to say a prayer to the car gods whenever I hit the ignition. She grumbles to reluctant life straightaway, but I stall, and then nick the curb.

  Our school motto is emblazoned on the stone fence I park in front of. Qui uero non abscondetur: he who tries cannot lose.

  Or: underdogs.

  North doesn’t have a social hierarchy, as such, but people tend to cluster in patchwork groups. Mine consists of Len, Ged, Harrison and Vince – otherwise known as The Boiyss, because our New Zealander core PE teacher shouted ‘BOIYSS!’ with a hard ‘s’ at us so much in year eight that it stuck.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ Ged asks when I meet them at the gate, his too-small school shirt straining across his
shoulders. ‘I told you, don’t shave if you’ve only got three facial hairs.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’ I pat my raw, bald cheeks.

  ‘What did you use, a hunting knife?’ Harrison Ford adds. Harrison is Ged’s cousin, hence that nickname having been spread through the entire school, even though his real surname is Fehr.

  I hold up my phone, trying to use the blank screen as a mirror. The tissue I shoved onto the (deeper than I realised) cut is bloody and half-slipping down my face. I try unsuccessfully to pick it off, almost dropping my phone in the process.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Len mutters, reaching across to pull it from my jaw. He tosses it into the bin behind him.

  ‘Mummy got it for you,’ Ged teases.

  My cheeks flame. ‘Shut up, Gerrard.’

  ‘Oi. That’s not funny.’

  Vince sidles up to us even later than I am, with no blazer and the wrong coloured socks.

  ‘Morning, gents,’ he drawls in his cockney accent.

  We head towards the year twelve home rooms.

  North is a collection of red-brick buildings spread out across several manicured acres someone donated after the war. The senior classrooms are at the top of the only hill, so we join the steady stream of grey-and-red pinstriped blazers making the climb.

  ‘We still on for tonight?’ Vince asks.

  It’s been a tradition for the past year or so that we go down to the coast on the night of the first day of term. There’s a tiny headland beach, since dubbed The Place We Go because we are wordsmiths. We sit, eat, drink beer and build a shitty bonfire.

  ‘Yeah, I got off work. Whose car are we going in?’ Harrison says.

  ‘I’m good with any except the Pissar,’ Ged puts in hastily.

  ‘Don’t call it that!’ I snap, stung on my steed’s behalf. ‘It’s a perfectly reliable Nissan Pulsar. Just because the air con’s a bit—’

  ‘Non-existent?’

  ‘Touchy. And it doesn’t always—’

  ‘Turn on?’

  ‘Corner all that smoothly, doesn’t mean it—’

  ‘Is the actual colour of piss. A Nissan Pissar.’

  ‘It’s gold,’ I protest. ‘Surely, it’d have to be yellow for that insult to even make sense.’

  ‘We can take mine,’ Len offers. He has his dad’s old LandCruiser which, admittedly, does put my steed to great shame.

  ‘Coolio! Catch ya later.’ Ged waves, and he and Harrison line up outside 12A. Len, Vince and I take our place at the door to 12C.

  ‘I’m picking the music,’ Vince stipulates.

  ‘Not Amity Affliction,’ I beg. ‘I swear in that one song actual blood comes out of my ears.’

  ‘There’s actual blood coming out of your face, mate,’ Vince says.

  ‘What?’ I rub it frantically. There are rules about sloppy shaving. As respectable young men representing NGS to the public, having a face like a dropped pie isn’t an option.

  ‘He’s just winding you up,’ says Len, laughing.

  I pull out my phone again for a closer look.

  ‘Vincent Hastings!’ a voice booms from behind us. ‘What do you call this look? “Dickensian orphan mugs schoolboy and assumes his identity?” Do up your tie properly!’

  Mr Schiffer approaches us, nose raised high. He looks like Kevin Rudd but taller and his face is much less jolly. He’s been principal here for the last twenty years. People call him the Sniffer because he can smell misconduct from within a ten-kilometre radius.

  ‘I’ll take that.’ He snatches my phone out of my hand and tucks it into his shirt pocket before I have time to protest, raising his nose even further into the air. ‘I expect more from our captain.’ He sniffs at me.

  Vince and Len disguise their sniggers as coughs.

  One of my duties as school captain is hosting whole school assembly, alongside the vice-captain, Martin Finch. Martin lost to me by ten votes and they gave him vice as a consolation prize. He’s not over it.

  ‘Have a good holiday, Henry?’ he asks when I enter the auditorium through the side door after home room.

  ‘Er, yeah,’ I say, surprised by the cordiality. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ Martin sniffs like the Sniffer’s apprentice he is. ‘Not so good that I was late to school.’

  I pull a face at him when he turns around to plug in the microphone.

  Hundreds of guys are already filing in through the front and back entrances, and spreading out across the tiered seating. I rub my hands on the thighs of my grey trousers, waiting.

  ‘Try to remember to greet the guest,’ Martin snips, referring to the one time a member of the school board was present and I forgot to formally introduce him.

  ‘Will do.’

  We fake smile at each other. Martin’s got spinach in his teeth; I decide not to tell him.

  Once everyone’s seated, Mr Schiffer gives me the signal to start. Martin hands the mic over reluctantly. I tap it three times, and the noise slowly dies down.

  ‘Good morning honoured guests, parents, staff and students,’ I say clearly.

  Martin hisses out a breath. He’s probably disappointed that I got it right.

  ‘Welcome to term three. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday. I know I did. What about you, Martin?’

  ‘Wonderful, Hamlet. Wonderful.’ He smiles tightly.

  ‘But not so wonderful that we aren’t glad to be back for another term of living and learning at NGS,’ I say.

  The audience titters sarcastically.

  ‘I, for one, am just so happy to be back standing next to you, Finch. The Fincharoo.’ I put my arm around Martin for extra effect.

  ‘Oh, ditto, Hamlet,’ he says, clasping my shoulder in return so hard it’s really more of a smack. ‘So, tell us – what do we have in store this term?’

  ‘Well, it’s a big one all round, but especially for us twelves. Let’s have a big cheer for the class of 2008!’

  After a half-hearted wooo, I move on to rambling about study habits (three hours a night, boys) and this year’s spirit theme (‘we’re all mates’) before giving the day’s notices and handing over to Mr Schiffer so he can berate us (again) for losing the athletics cup to St Sebastian’s.

  ‘See you next time, eh?’ I wave to Martin once we’re dismissed.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ he deadpans.

  I wait for the guys by the side entrance.

  ‘Was that necessary?’ Harrison asks, gesturing towards Martin. ‘He’s not a bad guy.’

  (Harrison is a rules person. It’s mostly endearing, except when he calls you out.)

  ‘He requested I be impeached last term, when I allegedly swore in front of a year seven,’ I remind him.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, that’s right,’ Vince says. ‘Git.’

  We start walking towards the lockers.

  ‘Did you do it?’ Ged asks curiously.

  ‘Yeah, but I’d just dropped my last two bucks down the drain near the tuckshop!’

  Harrison looks unimpressed.

  ‘It wasn’t full-on swearing,’ I defend myself.

  ‘You said “fuck a duck”,’ Len puts in helpfully.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Lennon,’ I snap. ‘Good to know you’re on my side.’

  ‘We’re all on your side, mate,’ Ged says, flicking me on the back of the head. ‘Giving you shit is part of the deal.’

  The classes tick by slowly. We’re given assignments for two subjects the moment we walk in: modern history, and English, which I don’t mind – we’re doing The Great Gatsby. I’ve already read it during my classics phase.

  Mandatory PE still sits like a stain on my timetable. It’s particularly abhorrent this year, now that there’s so many other things I could/should be doing.

  I sleepwalk through our first basics of basket
ball lesson. It’s probably my least favourite of all sports – people always assume my height somehow equals hand-eye coordination.

  Coach Jamieson marks notoriously hard on participation, so whenever he looks over at our group, I half-heartedly chase the ball and throw him a thumbs up like a wasted Wiggle.

  ‘Cane!’ Coach barks twenty minutes later. ‘Go help Hamlet, for the love of God. Hopeless.’

  Len jogs over obediently.

  After a shared look, we manage to craft an elaborate pantomime wherein I knock the ball out of his hands while he’s dribbling it.

  ‘You got me,’ Len shouts when I swat the ball away. ‘Wow. I’m a fool.’

  ‘Tone it down,’ I hiss, bouncing the ball against the gym floor so hard it nearly whacks my favourite Atticus Finch–esque glasses off my face. I bounce it some more.

  Coach looks over and grunts approvingly. ‘Better!’ he shouts. ‘But still not good.’

  ‘Title of your autobiography,’ Len says in an undertone, and I peg the ball at him.

  When the bell finally rings, we all pile into Len’s car. He stops at a service station just outside the city for coffees and food supplies, and we hastily shuck off the itch of ties, jumpers and blazers.

  We wind our way along the highway, Ged sticking out of the sunroof like a hoon until Harrison drags him down. I lean against my open window, chin on folded arms, listening to the familiar squabbling and watching trees spin past. Salt air kicks my hair around.

  Len drives well, if a bit fast, so we beat the traffic and arrive before the sun slips.

  We park on the grass near the headland, and unload musty old camp chairs and an esky full of trans fats. The sky is starting to turn the vein-blue of a dying afternoon, the sea flat underneath it.

  Since we started doing this, several traditions have evolved:

  What happens at The Place We Go stays at The Place We Go (e.g. the time Ged told us he hooked up with Harrison’s sister, Casey – yes, first cousin as in first cousin).

  Everyone is responsible for bringing one item of junk food. Vince is always in charge of beverages, because he never gets carded. (I always do. I’ll probably be thirty and still get asked for my ID.)

  Skinny dipping is optional.