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Authors: Markus Zusak
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Kieren.
“Can I go with Kieren, Mum? Please?”
“All right, but make sure you’re listening out for your events—the seventy meters is coming up.”
“Okay. Let’s go, Kieren.”
For a moment I feel glad to be called simple, no-problems Ed. Not Edward, Edmund, Edwin. Just Ed. Sheer mediocrity feels nice for a change.
Sophie sees me once she stands up, and a small piece of contentment finds itself on her face. She looks happy to see me, but she still turns from me almost straightaway. She walks to the marshaling area with a pair of crappy old spiked shoes in her hand (I assume the older kids are allowed to wear them in the longer races) when her father calls out again.
“Hey, Soph.”
She turns to face him.
“I know you can win it—if you want it.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
She walks hurriedly away, turning once more to where I sit in the sun, shoving a Lamington into my mouth. There’s acoconut sprinkle stuck to the side of my lips, but it’s too late to remove it. She wouldn’t see it, anyway. Not from that distance. She only gives me a quick glance and goes on. I know what I have to do now.
If I was a cocky sort of guy, I’d tell you this one’s a piece of piss. A snack.
But I’m not.
I can’t bring myself to say it because I still think of Edgar Street. I realize that for every good message, there will always be one that will agonize me. So I’m thankful for this. It’s a nice day, and I like this girl. I like her even more when she runs alongside another tall and skinny girl who always looks like she’s got the wood on her. They run together, but at the end, the other girl finishes more strongly. Her stride lengthens, and a man keeps yelling, “Go, Annie! Go, Annie! Dig ’em in, love! Dig ’em in! Beat her, darlin’, you can do it!”
I’d rather come in second than have shit like that yelled at me.
Sophie’s father is different.
For the race he goes down to the fence and watches intently. He yells nothing. Only watches. At times, I can sense some tension in him as he wills his daughter ahead of the other girl. When the other one nudges ahead, he looks briefly over to the other father, but that’s all. When she wins, he applauds her, and he applauds Sophie, too. The other father only stands there with obscene pride, as if it was he who’d just run his stomach out and won the race.
When Sophie comes and stands next to her father, he puts his arm around her. Her disappointment is written heavily across her shoulders.
In a way, Sophie’s dad reminds me of my own father, except my own father never put his arm around me. Not to mention he was an alcoholic. It’s in his mannerisms and his quietness. My own father was a quiet man who never had a bad word for anyone. He’d go to the pub and stay there till closing. He’d walk the streets to sober up but it never quite worked. Still, I must say, he’d get up and make it to work the next day without fail. My ma would rant and rave and scream abuse at him for being out, but he never reacted. He never told her off in return.
Sophie’s father looks the same, except for the alcoholic part. In short, he looks like a gentleman.
They walk back to the mother together and sit there on the hill. The father and mother hold hands as Sophie drinks one of those sports drinks. They look like the type of family who tell each other they love each other when they go to bed, and when they wake up, and before they go to work.
The spiked shoes come off Sophie’s feet. She looks at them and sighs, “I thought these were meant to be good luck.” I can only assume they’ve been handed down from her mother or perhaps another successful relative.
As they sit on the ground, I take a closer look at those shoes. They’re a faded blue and yellow. They’re old and worn through.
And they’re wrong.
The girl deserves better.
“Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I’ve been busy.”
Audrey and I are on my front porch, drinking cheap alcohol,
“Can I go with Kieren, Mum? Please?”
“All right, but make sure you’re listening out for your events—the seventy meters is coming up.”
“Okay. Let’s go, Kieren.”
For a moment I feel glad to be called simple, no-problems Ed. Not Edward, Edmund, Edwin. Just Ed. Sheer mediocrity feels nice for a change.
Sophie sees me once she stands up, and a small piece of contentment finds itself on her face. She looks happy to see me, but she still turns from me almost straightaway. She walks to the marshaling area with a pair of crappy old spiked shoes in her hand (I assume the older kids are allowed to wear them in the longer races) when her father calls out again.
“Hey, Soph.”
She turns to face him.
“I know you can win it—if you want it.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
She walks hurriedly away, turning once more to where I sit in the sun, shoving a Lamington into my mouth. There’s acoconut sprinkle stuck to the side of my lips, but it’s too late to remove it. She wouldn’t see it, anyway. Not from that distance. She only gives me a quick glance and goes on. I know what I have to do now.
If I was a cocky sort of guy, I’d tell you this one’s a piece of piss. A snack.
But I’m not.
I can’t bring myself to say it because I still think of Edgar Street. I realize that for every good message, there will always be one that will agonize me. So I’m thankful for this. It’s a nice day, and I like this girl. I like her even more when she runs alongside another tall and skinny girl who always looks like she’s got the wood on her. They run together, but at the end, the other girl finishes more strongly. Her stride lengthens, and a man keeps yelling, “Go, Annie! Go, Annie! Dig ’em in, love! Dig ’em in! Beat her, darlin’, you can do it!”
I’d rather come in second than have shit like that yelled at me.
Sophie’s father is different.
For the race he goes down to the fence and watches intently. He yells nothing. Only watches. At times, I can sense some tension in him as he wills his daughter ahead of the other girl. When the other one nudges ahead, he looks briefly over to the other father, but that’s all. When she wins, he applauds her, and he applauds Sophie, too. The other father only stands there with obscene pride, as if it was he who’d just run his stomach out and won the race.
When Sophie comes and stands next to her father, he puts his arm around her. Her disappointment is written heavily across her shoulders.
In a way, Sophie’s dad reminds me of my own father, except my own father never put his arm around me. Not to mention he was an alcoholic. It’s in his mannerisms and his quietness. My own father was a quiet man who never had a bad word for anyone. He’d go to the pub and stay there till closing. He’d walk the streets to sober up but it never quite worked. Still, I must say, he’d get up and make it to work the next day without fail. My ma would rant and rave and scream abuse at him for being out, but he never reacted. He never told her off in return.
Sophie’s father looks the same, except for the alcoholic part. In short, he looks like a gentleman.
They walk back to the mother together and sit there on the hill. The father and mother hold hands as Sophie drinks one of those sports drinks. They look like the type of family who tell each other they love each other when they go to bed, and when they wake up, and before they go to work.
The spiked shoes come off Sophie’s feet. She looks at them and sighs, “I thought these were meant to be good luck.” I can only assume they’ve been handed down from her mother or perhaps another successful relative.
As they sit on the ground, I take a closer look at those shoes. They’re a faded blue and yellow. They’re old and worn through.
And they’re wrong.
The girl deserves better.
“Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I’ve been busy.”
Audrey and I are on my front porch, drinking cheap alcohol,
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