6
6
Y OUR MUM IS RIGHT and your mum is wrong. The boy won’t forget about the vomit, but he will become your friend.
He’s not your friend yet, though. For now, you are just his shower-arounder – something that means it is your job to show him around, explain what newbies can’t be expected to know.
For instance, you might tell him that you need to avoid the school dinner curries at all costs. This is not just because the last batch gave a number of people diarrhoea. It’s also because it tastes bad.
Likewise, you could tell him everyone has to go boy-girl, boy-girl in queues – it’s a school rule and a way of making sure no one is standing next to their friend. You could explain this with a bit of child psychology – say that, in the early years of education human children tend to naturally segregate themselves according to sex. You won’t because you don’t know anything about child psychology. But theoretically you could.
Similarly, you might tell him you need to walk and not run whenever travelling from A to B. You could mention that the no-running rule is strictly enforced everywhere outside physical education. This is despite the fact that running is faster than walking, and a running-allowed policy might even negate the need for so many physical education classes.
You could and would say all this, but the new kid is not here yet. He is late. You wait for him in the car park. You undo your school shoes, redo your school shoes, loosen your tie, tighten your tie. After a while, you lose all sense of decorum and rummage in the depths of your right nostril.
You are fidgeting. You are fussing. Why? You are anxious: the catch-all term for the feelings you are currently feeling. Right now, you can feel your heartbeat. Although your heart beats all the time, you are normally unaware of its pulsations. Now, though, you are very aware of the red thing in your chest as you loosen and unloosen your tie. Similarly, you are aware of your lungs (how tight they are), your hands (how shaky they are), and your feet (how tingly they are).
You are apprehensive. You are the new kid’s shower-arounder: the most important, forward-facing job available to kids like you. It might even be something that you can put on your CV i – the very first thing. For such an important day, you have to be comfortable in your skin. For such an important day, you have to be smart in your clothes. For such an important day, you need him to arrive on time so that you can start on time.
After a few minutes – or maybe longer, gauging the passage of time is not your strong suit – the new kid arrives in a car that is tall and wide. The driver appears to be the same lady you saw before. You wonder if she is the new kid’s sole caregiver. You wonder what happened to his dad.
The tall and wide car skids to a halt, and the new kid’s mum looks at you. After this, she forehead-kisses the new kid. Then she says something you can’t quite hear. Then the new kid says something you also can’t hear. Then the new kid’s mum raises her voice and pours forth what seems to be some animated encouragement. You can make out some words. To be specific, you can make out the words ‘please’, ‘future’, and ‘education’.
The new kid remains unmoving. He doesn’t budge, not after one, two, three warnings. After this, his mum leans over to unbuckle his seat belt, then opens the passenger door.
‘Bobby, I’m sorry but this is it. I’m not driving you back home. Please, son. Get out of the car.’
Bobby does not exit the car normally. Instead, in an alarming turn of events, he keeps his body rigid and lets himself fall out of the car and onto the ground. As the ground is made up of concrete covered in gravel, his landing is not a soft one. Indeed, upon impact, he lets out a yelp. He then lies still for a while, looking up at the sky with mournful eyes.
‘Oh my god,’ Bobby’s mum says, exiting the vehicle to go inspect her son. ‘That’s the silliest thing you’ve done all week!’
Bobby’s mum crouches down next to her son. For a second, you wonder if he has departed this life and entered the next. Then he sits himself up and you see that his main injuries are two bloodied knees. Though the amount of blood is slight, you don’t like it.
‘I’m hurt, Mother,’ Bobby says, clambering up to his feet. ‘I can’t go on. I must be returned home immediately.’
Your mind immediately goes to something you think is called ‘septic tank’. You wonder if this kid has septic tank, or will have septic tank in the near future. You wonder if your showing-around duties will extend to the local hospital. ii
Bobby’s mum shakes her head. ‘You’re barely hurt.’
‘I am.’
‘You’ve grazed yourself. Intentionally too.’ Bobby’s mum gazes at the Victorian building towering above you, then rests her eyes on you. ‘Maybe this person can take you to the nurse. I think she’s here for you.’ She nods your way, gives you a smile.
‘Who?’
‘This one over there.’
You wave. ‘Hi,’ you say in a voice that is suddenly and curiously American.
Bobby frowns at you but says nothing.
‘All right,’ Bobby’s mum says, getting back in her car to drive away. ‘Be good. Get those knees seen to. Please.’
Once the pair of you are alone, you point to the badge fastened to your acrylic navy-blue school jumper. ‘Guide,’ you say. Then, remembering to speak in full sentences, you speak in full sentences. ‘I’m your guide. You’re with me today. I can show you around.’
There is a pause. You can hear the bell sound out and the shuffling of two hundred trudging feet.
‘You are supposed to be with me today,’ you say again. ‘You are supposed to follow me. I can take you to the nurse before our first class. Are you Robert?’
Bobby scowls. ‘Don’t call me that.’
You try to say pardon and sorry at the same time, but it comes out wrong. ‘I’m pardon?’ you say.
‘Bobby. My name is Bobby,’ the new kid says. ‘I have a bob and my name is Bobby.’
‘Oh, great news,’ you say.
As you lead Bobby inside, you try to reassure yourself, tell yourself it’s an ordinary Tuesday, that there is physical education then numeracy then physical education then break time then literacy time and lunchtime and some more physical education. You try to convince yourself that looking after this boy won’t be difficult – that you’ll take him to the nurse for two plasters, then everything will feel normal as he follows you around.
Except, on your way to the medical room, you realise that Bobby is nowhere to be seen.
‘Bobby?’ you say to an empty corridor. Panic courses through your veins. Bobby is meant to be with you at all times. This is really bad. On a scale of one to ten of badness, this is at least an eight.
Then you hear a flush of a toilet, and Bobby reappears. A wash of relief cascades over you. ‘I was just going for a wee,’ he says, shutting the door behind him. ‘Chill out.’ He wipes his hands dry on his trousers – something you know to be unhygienic.
‘That’s the staff toilet. You can’t use the staff toilet. You’re not staff.’
Bobby looks at you. From this look, you suspect that – fundamentally, at a profound, core level – he doesn’t care about whether he is supposed to use the staff toilet.
‘I don’t care about staff toilets. I care about not wetting myself.’ He pauses. ‘I also care about not throwing up everywhere too.’
You continue heading towards the nurse’s room. You pass the first physical education class – the one both of you are meant to be in. Here, your classmates are squatting and jumping and stepping and lunging and shuffling. Shortly, they will all go to maths and chant out the times tables one at a time.
You enter the nurse’s room without knocking.
‘Didn’t think to knock?’ she asks.
‘No,’ you say.
The nurse taps her red nails against her desk, sits back, and regards you suspiciously. You notice she’s dressed very casually today. The only indication that she is at work is her lanyard, which says ‘NURSE’ and not ‘STAFF’ like every other member of staff. You have seen it before, but only now does this distinction interest you. A nurse is surely also classed as a member of staff, you think. ‘STAFF’ is a big word – its meaning roomy enough for ‘NURSE’ to fit inside. Why then does her lanyard not just say ‘STAFF’?
‘Well, who can I help?’ the nurse asks, her eyes pausing on the gashes on Bobby’s two knees.
You try to explain. ‘So, I was, um, there was a car and he was in it and then his mum—’
‘I’m injured,’ Bobby interrupts, gesturing at his two bloodied knees. The injuries don’t look so bad any more.
The nurse tuts. ‘How were you injured?’
‘I hurt my knees,’ Bobby repeats, using both index fingers to indicate more pointedly.
The nurse shakes her head. ‘No, how were you injured, as in how did it happen?’
‘Oh.’ Bobby frowns. ‘I fell out of the car.’
‘Hm.’ The nurse purses her lips, then glances at you. ‘You showing this one around?’
You nod.
‘He’s new?’
You nod.
‘I thought as much. Not like you to have company.’
Your stomach does a swoosh.
‘You going to speak?’ the nurse asks you. ‘You going to speak properly?’
You shrug, look at the floor. Her statement was true: it is not like you to have company. As a general rule, you arrive at school, learn at school, leave the others well alone, and are left by the others well alone. It doesn’t occur to you to have it any other way. You are well alone. This is well OK.
The nurse provides Bobby with two plasters for his knees, a wad of wet paper towel to press against his forehead, and one grey sick bowl to clutch on to. Then she shoos the pair of you away.
You take Bobby outside, for it is now break time. Here, your classmates are making dens and shimmying up trees while screaming, wailing, and yelling. In the corner of the field, some familiar faces are acting out a funeral for a ladybird who sadly lost its life that morning.
‘Are you going to…’ Bobby starts. ‘You know, join in?’
You look at Bobby, shake your head.
‘Are you going to throw up on me again?’ Bobby offers you the sick bowl. ‘You can have this if you like.’
You shake your head once more, look away.
Bobby puts the sick bowl in the bin and scuttles off. You leave him to it – let him join in while you sway by the sidelines. He is a natural. You are not.
Like this, without fanfare, you abandon your role of shower-arounder. You don’t tell Bobby that you mustn’t touch the school dinner curry, that you have to go boy-girl, boy-girl in queues, or that you shouldn’t run unless in a physical education class.
Why would you bother? It’s not like you to have company, not like you to have friends.
Further reading:
Soil, Soilage and Septic Tanks
Septic Shock: A Sufferer’s Guide
Footnotes
i A CV is a written summary of someone’s work experience, skills, and qualifications. It is an initialism – a string of initial letters pronounced separately – standing for curriculum vitae.
ii Thanks to being raised by an anxious mother, a risk-aware father, and a TV diet of daytime medical documentaries, your knowledge of the medical lexicon is surprisingly extensive. However, in this instance, your choice of vocabulary is wrong. Septic tanks are large sewerage containers. If someone has a septic tank, they probably live in the countryside and don’t have their waste connected to the mains. On the other hand, sepsis is blood poisoning. If someone has sepsis, then they might die. As it happens, the new kid has neither a septic tank nor sepsis. Like you, he lives in the suburbs. His plumbing is all tied up neatly to the mains. Neither sewerage nor sepsis can hurt him there.