where’s this parcel?” she bellowed as soon as her feet hit the ground.
Ra said, “Kia ora, Paikea!” They kissed. “He’s inside, all wrapped up and ready to go.”
And so he was. Ra had told him to dress his best because they would judge him by what he was wearing as soon as they saw him. Te Arepa had polished up his black school shoes and Ra had even ironed his grey trousers and white shirt. He had borrowed a rugby club sweat-shirt from his cousin Errol. Everyone respected the Whareiti Pirates Rugby Club. He liked it for the skull and crossbones emblem. Because of Diego, this had become his personal symbol.
The trip to Auckland took forever. Paikea claimed six hours, twenty, but he reckoned it was much longer. They wound their way up the Coast through the darkness. As it grew lighter the towns began to get bigger. It was all new to him. At every post office Paikea leapt out, van hardly stationary, and disappeared for a few minutes, before reappearing with a bag over her shoulder. As the towns got bigger so did the bags. The van filled but the speed never varied. Paikea drove at one hundred and nine kilometres an hour. She said the cops allowed a ten percent speedo error.
Paikea was shocked to hear that he couldn’t drive as if he didn’t know his seven times table. Even though Ra didn’t drive, and they didn’t have a car, somehow she thought it was Te Arepa’s duty and that he should have found a way. She was ‘born to drive’, ‘lived for it’, ‘only really came alive behind the wheel’. And it was true. Behind the wheel Paikea had an intensity that he hadn’t seen before. It was like her whole body became a part of the drive train. Te Arepa watched the muscles in her wrists, her restless eye, the nimble flick of her gear changes. All her movements were quick and precise. Two fingers pulled the gear stick back; the palm of her hand slapped it forward.
“Listen to the motor, boy, feel the power band flatten out and bang! Change up. As easy as that.”
She taught him about picking a line for the corner. “Look ahead as far as you can around it. Pick a line that lets you through thefastest. I call it the sweet line.”
She flashed him a serious look as if he had said something. “Never brake on a corner! It’ll be the end of you. Brake in, power out, that’s the rule.”
After a while she got him to steer from the passenger seat. She rolled a smoke and gave instructions. “Go wider … pull in … pull in, man! That’s better. You got it! Beauty!”
No one passed them for the whole trip.
They reached the outskirts of Auckland at about twelve o’clock. Te Arepa spotted its crenulated skyline as they crested the Bombay Hills.
His heart kicked when Aunty said, “There she is boy, Sin City.”
About forty minutes later she dropped him at the gates of a huge school.
“Good luck, Te Arepa. I’ll be back around five,” she said, and then roared off down the road, leaving him bewildered and daunted beside a rugged stone wall.
The gateway was a massive arch. Along the drive there were little cardboard signs lettered with the words ‘Scholarship Examination’ and an arrow. They led to the hall. This too was on an enormous scale. The whole of Whareiti would be lost in this place.
At the top of the driveway there were lots of family groups, each with a boy his age amongst them. The boys were all wearing blazers, trouser and ties: he was the only one in a sweatshirt. The only one alone. The others were nearly all Asian or Indian, only a few Pakeha. He was the only Maori.
They gathered on the steps outside the hall, waiting for a word. The boys all carried pencil cases and rulers; he realised he was empty-handed. A bad start: he didn’t think to bring his stuff. A tall, red-faced Pakeha man came out onto the steps. His hair was funny. It could be a wig, Te Arepa thought. The man cracked the knuckles on his long fingers then began to speak.
“Welcome to Barwell’s Collegiate.”
He
Ra said, “Kia ora, Paikea!” They kissed. “He’s inside, all wrapped up and ready to go.”
And so he was. Ra had told him to dress his best because they would judge him by what he was wearing as soon as they saw him. Te Arepa had polished up his black school shoes and Ra had even ironed his grey trousers and white shirt. He had borrowed a rugby club sweat-shirt from his cousin Errol. Everyone respected the Whareiti Pirates Rugby Club. He liked it for the skull and crossbones emblem. Because of Diego, this had become his personal symbol.
The trip to Auckland took forever. Paikea claimed six hours, twenty, but he reckoned it was much longer. They wound their way up the Coast through the darkness. As it grew lighter the towns began to get bigger. It was all new to him. At every post office Paikea leapt out, van hardly stationary, and disappeared for a few minutes, before reappearing with a bag over her shoulder. As the towns got bigger so did the bags. The van filled but the speed never varied. Paikea drove at one hundred and nine kilometres an hour. She said the cops allowed a ten percent speedo error.
Paikea was shocked to hear that he couldn’t drive as if he didn’t know his seven times table. Even though Ra didn’t drive, and they didn’t have a car, somehow she thought it was Te Arepa’s duty and that he should have found a way. She was ‘born to drive’, ‘lived for it’, ‘only really came alive behind the wheel’. And it was true. Behind the wheel Paikea had an intensity that he hadn’t seen before. It was like her whole body became a part of the drive train. Te Arepa watched the muscles in her wrists, her restless eye, the nimble flick of her gear changes. All her movements were quick and precise. Two fingers pulled the gear stick back; the palm of her hand slapped it forward.
“Listen to the motor, boy, feel the power band flatten out and bang! Change up. As easy as that.”
She taught him about picking a line for the corner. “Look ahead as far as you can around it. Pick a line that lets you through thefastest. I call it the sweet line.”
She flashed him a serious look as if he had said something. “Never brake on a corner! It’ll be the end of you. Brake in, power out, that’s the rule.”
After a while she got him to steer from the passenger seat. She rolled a smoke and gave instructions. “Go wider … pull in … pull in, man! That’s better. You got it! Beauty!”
No one passed them for the whole trip.
They reached the outskirts of Auckland at about twelve o’clock. Te Arepa spotted its crenulated skyline as they crested the Bombay Hills.
His heart kicked when Aunty said, “There she is boy, Sin City.”
About forty minutes later she dropped him at the gates of a huge school.
“Good luck, Te Arepa. I’ll be back around five,” she said, and then roared off down the road, leaving him bewildered and daunted beside a rugged stone wall.
The gateway was a massive arch. Along the drive there were little cardboard signs lettered with the words ‘Scholarship Examination’ and an arrow. They led to the hall. This too was on an enormous scale. The whole of Whareiti would be lost in this place.
At the top of the driveway there were lots of family groups, each with a boy his age amongst them. The boys were all wearing blazers, trouser and ties: he was the only one in a sweatshirt. The only one alone. The others were nearly all Asian or Indian, only a few Pakeha. He was the only Maori.
They gathered on the steps outside the hall, waiting for a word. The boys all carried pencil cases and rulers; he realised he was empty-handed. A bad start: he didn’t think to bring his stuff. A tall, red-faced Pakeha man came out onto the steps. His hair was funny. It could be a wig, Te Arepa thought. The man cracked the knuckles on his long fingers then began to speak.
“Welcome to Barwell’s Collegiate.”
He
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