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Dropping In

Fremantle Press

I'm PlayStationed to death and I'm watching the street for entertainment. Drizzle smears the window. Shades of grey smudge into each other and run down the glass. The house feels like a cage.

Across the street a person is framed in a watery yellow square. It's a kid looking out — like me — except his head is wobbling all over the place. He sort of tips it back and then it nods forward on a different angle. I can't see his eyes but I know he's watching, checking out his new neighbourhood. The furniture van was just leaving when I got home from school yesterday. I didn't see any people arrive so maybe he came in the night. I wave but he doesn't wave back. He turns on the spot and slides out of sight. That's what it looked like, sliding, not walking. Weird! I watch for a little longer but he doesn't come back.

Right then, the phone rings. It's Ranga. He wants to come around and have a game on my PlayStation. PlayStation again! I feel like screaming. But knowing Ranga, he'll think of something crazy to do. He always does and then we end up in deep trouble.

'Righto,' I tell him. 'See you soon.' At least I won't be bored.

I go back to the window and watch Ranga running the hundred metres up the street from his house. He runs through the deepest puddles he can find. When he gets closer I can see him grinning. The idiot! But he's having a ball, sploshing along with his feet flying out sideways. Classic! I'm grinning, just watching him. It's been like this since I can remember — since I can remember anything at all.

When he turns into our driveway he leans over like a speeding motorbike. I can't hear him but I bet he's making engine noises. It looks like he's changing gear as he passes the letterbox, his hair plastered all over his forehead.

I jump up. He won't just make wet footprints on the floor; he'll make major puddles all through the house. I grab a towel from the pile of unfolded washing on the lounge and meet him at the front door.

'Hey Sticks,' he yells, like I'm kilometres away instead of just in front of him.

I hand him the towel. 'Dry yourself before you come in.'

He scrubs his head with the towel, making his hair stand up like it's on fire. Then he laughs. 'How badly do you want me to kick your butt?' He grabs the PlayStation controls and boots up a game. Somehow the PlayStation is fun again.

I've totally massacred Ranga in three different games and he's dead meat in this one when Mum walks in. A frown darkens her face when she sees Ranga. He has that effect on adults. It takes an effort, but she forces a smile.

'Hello Warren,' she says pleasantly.

Ranga doesn't look up. He's concentrating so hard on the game he hasn't even heard her. I kick him. Lucky he sees Mum before he says anything.

'Hi Mrs Whyte,' he beams at her.

He's got absolutely no idea that she doesn't like him. In fact he'd be amazed if I told him that most adults don't like him. He's got no idea at all. He can be really aggravating, but I know what he's really like. Yesterday he gave his lunch to a little kid who forgot to bring any to school. Ranga went hungry. I'd already eaten mine so he couldn't share with me but he didn't hesitate. And he'd do it again tomorrow — no worries.

Mum's been shopping and she needs a hand to bring everything in. Ranga's out the door before I can stop him. Sure enough he tries to carry too much and drops a tin of marmalade on the driveway. The rim is dented. Mum looks at it for a while. I think she's about to say something but her face changes when she sees the look on Ranga's face. He looks like a puppy expecting to get smacked.

She shrugs. 'We can always open it at the other end, Warren.' She smiles and I can feel Ranga's relief radiating around the kitchen. She pulls out a tin of Milo and a pack of Milk Arrowroot biscuits. Dip and Gunk. Excellent!

While Mum is making the Milo we argue over the rules. Ranga's always trying to figure out ways to cheat but I'm onto him. I rule out every suggestion for changes that he makes. Then we play scissors paper rock to see who goes first. Ranga loses. He always does. I can read him like a book.

He has to go first, while his Milo is still boiling hot. He holds the Milk Arrowroot biscuit between his thumb and forefinger, loosely, letting it swing a little over his steaming Milo.

He's deadly serious, frowning with concentration, waiting for me. I click the stopwatch. 'Go!'

Ranga plunges his biscuit into the Milo.

'Past halfway!' I say.

'It is!' he snaps. 'Quiet!' The frown grows deeper. A wet stain creeps up the biscuit from the Milo. Just above the surface of the Milo the biscuit begins to swell

'Ten seconds,' I say.

Ranga's hand shakes slightly. The biscuit wobbles like jelly. The secret is not to hold it too tight, otherwise it snaps off on the edge of the dry part.

'Fifteen seconds!'

Smoothly Ranga lifts the biscuit out of the Milo and raises it to his mouth. It bobbles around like pale-brown gorilla snot. Just as he gets it above his face a crack appears where the swollen wet biscuit meets the hard dry part, then the wet part drops straight into his mouth. He swallows it whole and grins. 'Your turn.'

Fifteen seconds — the record for this game. It should be easy to beat.

Ranga clicks the stopwatch. I put the biscuit into my Milo so carefully that I don't stir it at all. I've put extra sugar into mine so it's thicker and won't soak into the biscuit as easily. I can't lose.

Ranga tries every trick in the book to put me off but I am focussed. At fifty-five seconds I open my mouth.

'Sixty,' says Ranga. He's laughing — the mongrel!

I force away the smile that tries to creep onto my face. I lift the biscuit. It's huge, bloated with Milo — wobbling. I swing it up towards my mouth. In slow motion the crack appears. It widens and then the bottom of the biscuit drops away from my hand. I try to get my mouth under it but it brushes past my chin, splurts down the front of my shirt and splatters all over the table.

'Ha!' Ranga's on his feet pointing at me. 'Gunk!' he yells. 'Gu-unk!'

I smear the remains into a pile with my hands, then I pick up a spoon and scoop some into my mouth. I screw up my face, pretending it tastes bad, swallowing as though each spoonful is a brick.

Ranga is laughing so hard he's hugging himself. 'Urgh — gross.' He acts like he's vomiting so I pretend some of it wants to come back up and I squish a bit of mush out between my teeth. Ranga's eyes are watering.

'What do you think you're doing, Ian?' Mum's standing by the edge of the lounge room, hands on hips, glaring at me.

I wipe the goo from the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand. 'Dip and Gunk,' I say.

She stares at me and then at Ranga for a second. It feels like eternity, then she spins on her heels and heads out into the backyard. 'Clean it up!'

Ranga's got his hands on his hips, head jutting forward, chin out and eyes glaring. 'Yes, clean it up!' he says, pointing at the gunk. 'You dirty boy!' He spins around twice like a ballet dancer and stalks into the lounge room, leaving me trying not to crack up and spray gunk out of my mouth.

I've just got to the sink and rinsed out a dishcloth when Ranga calls out to me. 'Hey Sticks, there's a new kid over the road.'

I wipe up the gunk. 'Yeah,' I say. 'I saw him just before.'

'Does he live there?'

'I think so. New people moved in last night.'

Ranga comes running into the kitchen. 'There's something weird about him, the way he was sitting there. I think he saw me but he didn't wave. He just went.'

I nod. 'It was the same before, when I saw him.'

'He looked like a retard.'

I have this uncomfortable feeling, like something bad is going to happen. Ranga just said what I thought when I saw the kid, but I didn't say it. Not out loud anyway. I know what Mum would say if she heard me and I can't let Ranga say it either. 'Don't say that. You don't know what's up with him.'

Ranga just shrugs and picks up the PlayStation controls again.

It's a typical Monday morning. We're in home group just wasting time before our first lesson when the door opens. Mr Sutton, the principal, pokes his head in. 'I've brought the new student, Mr Brown,' he says.

Mr Brown jumps up. He looks guilty. I bet he was playing Angry Birds on his laptop. He nods. The principal steps into the room, holding the door wide open.

There is a whirring noise and one of those motorised wheelchairs edges its way through the door.

The kid in it is our age. His head is tipped forward and sideways. His hand on the control joystick is clawed and twisted. I can tell he is concentrating as hard as he can to steer the chair. He's pretty good at it because he makes it into the room without crashing into anything. He drives to the centre of the room and turns to face the class.

The principal clears his throat. 'This is James,' he says. 'I'm sure you'll all make him welcome.'

A sort of smile flashes over James's face but it disappears as quickly as it came. He is concentrating on the wheelchair controls again, except he can't seem to look directly at the joystick. His head seems to want to turn to the side all the time.

Mr Sutton nods at us as if to say, 'Come on, where's your manners?'

'Good morning James,' we all chorus.

'Goo mooning,' he slurs. It sounds like he is fully drunk.

The classroom falls silent. We are all staring at James, wondering. And then a voice rings out in the silence.

'He's a retard!'

The whole class takes a breath at once.

James flinches. There's a hurt expression, a flash of anger and then he grabs at the joystick on his wheelchair. He's having a lot more trouble getting hold of it than he was just a second ago. His face twists up all over the place and there's tension shaking his arm. He goes red as he tries to force his hand to grab the joystick, but it won't obey him. He leans forward and puts his eyes close to it. Then he has it and he turns the chair on the spot and heads for the door. His wheel scrapes the frame on the way through.

Mr Brown gapes for a second and then he takes off after him.

'McEvoy!' Mr Sutton's face is white. 'Get — to — my — office!'

Ranga's face is like an open book with blank pages: no expression at all, like he can't understand what just happened.

'McEvoy!'

Fear comes creeping into Ranga's eyes. It's in the way his head sinks into his shoulders. It's in the bunching of his mouth. He knows he's gone too far this time but I bet he doesn't know why, even now. Mr Sutton called him by his surname. Usually when Ranga does something stupid and gets into trouble Mr Sutton calls him Warren.

Ranga nods. 'Yes, Mr Sutton.' He walks out, head bowed — condemned.

Mr Sutton turns to the class. 'Don't ever,' he waves a finger in the air, 'ever let me hear anyone say anything like that again.' He pauses, staring us down. It takes a couple of seconds before he's satisfied we are all scared enough. 'James has cerebral palsy. He's not intellectually challenged — not retarded like Warren called him. He's as clever as any of you.' Mr Sutton gives me a heavy look. It feels like he thinks I had something to do with what Ranga did. Then he says, 'James' body just won't obey his brain properly.'

I'm trying to imagine how that must feel, what it would be like, when Mr Brown steps back into the classroom. 'Mr Sutton,' he says softly, 'can I have a word with you?'

Mr Sutton nods and steps outside. He's still half visible, talking to Mr Brown, so no one speaks. We just look around at each other.

Finally they both step back inside and right behind them comes James. He drives over to the middle and turns his chair so he's facing the class. He's been crying. His eyes are red and puffy.

All I can think of is how brave he is. For once Mr Sutton hasn't got anything to say.

'This way, James.' Mr Sutton hovers over James as though he's his mother or something. He leads him through the class to Ranga's desk, the desk next to mine. He drags Ranga's chair out of the way and James parks his wheelchair there. 'Ian will show you around,' he gives me a meaningful stare, 'at recess.'

James gives me that quick smile again. Is it really a smile or just a random expression on that face of his?

'Cool!' he says.

He seems happy to sit next to me, but does he recognise me? Does he know Ranga was around at my place yesterday? How would he feel if he knew I was actually wondering whether James was slow before Ranga blurted the thought out? I'm really uncomfortable. I don't know where to look but then home group ends and we have to go to maths.

I walk beside James and he tells me about himself. He used to live in Townsville. His father is in the army and he's been transferred to the SAS base in Swanbourne. He says it was hot up there and it feels freezing here. He slurs some words and stutters a bit but it's easy to get what he's saying.

I'm agreeing about how cold it has been here lately when he says, 'It didn't stop your friend from jumping in the puddles.'

Jeez! He does know! I'm trying to think of something to say when we arrive at maths. I make a big deal out of finding a seat just to get out of talking for a bit.

Turns out he's good at maths. He answers lots of questions and he gets the answers right too. He's pretty brainy.

I end up hanging out with James all day. It's okay but if I have to do it every day it'll get boring. James can't do much.

Ranga doesn't come back to class. I bet he got suspended.

It's nearly dark. Mum will be calling me in for dinner soon but I don't want to go in yet. Ranga still hasn't come out of his house. Maybe I should go down and check on him. Trouble is, Ranga doesn't like me to go down there. Nearly every time I say we should go to his house for a change, he says we can't because his mum isn't well. I've only met her a couple of times but she seemed alright to me.

I don't know why I should be worried about someone seeing me looking at Ranga's place but, as I start walking down the hill, I'm acting as though I'm just going for a stroll in the evening. You know — just casually looking around at the scenery. The cold air nips at my ears and I hunch my shoulders so my hoodie covers more of my neck. The streetlights come on before I even pass my neighbour's place. It gets dark so early in winter.

As I walk past Ranga's house I steal a glance at the front window. Yellow light leaks through cracks in the blinds, all warm and homely, like he's in there in his PJs, about to have dinner. I nearly turn around but I force myself to walk up to the house. I have to see how he's doing.

I'm almost at the front door when I hear his mum shouting. She's yelling that Ranga's a nuisance and that he makes her life miserable. There's some scuffling and a crash and suddenly the front door is ripped open. It's Ranga's mum. She steps outside even though she's in a dressing-gown. Her hair is all messed up. She's breathing heavily, like she's puffed. I think she's trying to calm down.

She stops when she sees me. She stares at me for a second and then kind of pulls herself together, like all her joints were loose and she is tightening the connectors. 'Warren can't come out,' she says. 'He's grounded.'

'For what he did at school?' I ask.

She just stares at me. Her eyes are red.

'It wasn't really his fault,' I begin, but she interrupts.

'Don't you defend him!' And she slams the door shut.

I stand there for a second as though I expect something else to happen but everything is quiet. I don't know what else to do so I head home. I'm walking up the hill when a car toots. It's Dad, home from work.

As I reach our letterbox I look across at James' house. He's in the window, like last night, but this time when I wave he waves back. If it wasn't dinnertime I could probably go across and talk to him. But it is, so I don't.

As we eat dinner I tell Dad about what happened. He doesn't ask questions as I speak. He just nods every so often. It's good telling him stuff. Mum always tries to take over your story, asking questions and telling you things about the people you're trying to tell her about. Sometimes she makes you forget what you're saying. Tonight she doesn't interrupt either. Once she lifts her hand and leans forward, but Dad catches her eye and shakes his head. She looks at him for a moment and then sits back and lets me finish.

When they've heard everything they try to tell me about James and cerebral palsy, but they don't really know any more than I do. They say how sorry they feel for James, but I get the feeling that they are sorrier for James' parents than they are for him. They say how hard it is for them and how Mrs Davidson has had to give up work for all these years to look after him and that it is very expensive to look after a child with cerebral palsy and how they have to have a special car and modify the house.

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Excerpted from Dropping In by Geoff Havel. Copyright © 2015 Geoff Havel. Excerpted by permission of Fremantle Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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