Read Online My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm - Free Book Online Page B

off her face and got with some guy who rocked up with his emo posse. No St Phil's chick can get with a guy from Beenleigh and not be labelled a loose slag. They were sucking face for hours in the laundry. Right or wrong, everyone knows she bonked him. The next Monday at school there were photos of them above the drink troughs and boys’ urinal. Beenleigh's hand was up her skirt.
    â€˜You coming?’ The P asks as the bus pulls in.
    â€˜I'm gonna walk,’ I say. The thought of having to listen to their rot all the way home has made me change my mind.
    â€˜Suit yourself,’ he says and they both get on board.
    I think about Sam and wonder how much longer she'll be in there. It seems unfair she's in so long just for her uniform. Still, she won't have to face up again tomorrow. I think about that smile she shot me, the wave, like she was genuinely happy to see me. I pull my shoulders back.
    â€˜You've missed it you know.’ I look up. She's standing at the end of the bench seat.
    â€˜I know.’
    She reaches for her hair, plays with it as she had in detention. ‘Then why are you waiting?’
    I shrug and watch as she takes two huge loop earrings from her bag. She threads them into her lobes like J Lo.
    â€˜So that's how you got uniform detention?’ I ask.
    She gives me that grin again.
    â€˜I was thinking,’ I say, then stop, not sure if I should go on.
    â€˜What about?’
    Then it just spills out of my mouth, like it went to my tongue, but not my brain. ‘Walking home with you.’
    â€˜Walking me home?’
    â€˜No!’ I blurt. ‘Walk home with you, not walk you home.’
    She lifts her eyebrows at me. ‘And the difference is?’
    It's too late to dig myself out of this mess, but in my nervous attempt to change the topic I dive into something potentially worse: ‘Pity about not getting included in the footy team.’ I cringe immediately, thinking she's probably furious about her name getting on the sheet.
    â€˜Yeah, great pity,’ she says sarcastically. ‘I was pinning my dreams on that.’ She laughs and pulls on the strap of her bag.
    Pleased things went all right, I decide to go on with it. ‘I could have a word with the coach if you like. After all, I've got connections.’
    She purses her lips. ‘And what would you say?’
    â€˜I'd say you've got—’ Is she aware of the way I'm looking at her? Scanning her body, neither impressed nor repelled. ‘I'd say you've got a good tackle.’
    â€˜A good tackle?’ she says, then peers up and down the street as if wanting to leave. Yep, she noticed.
    â€˜And how do you know that?’ she asks, turning back to me.
    â€˜I dunno,’ I say and shuffle my feet nervously, ‘but I'd have to say something, otherwise you wouldn't get a run.’
    She looks up and down the street again. ‘Which way?’
    I point down the hill.
    â€˜Lucky,’ she says.
    â€˜Why's that?’
    â€˜If you want to walk me home, we both have to go the same way,’ she says and starts off. I leap from the bench seat, pick up my bag and lope after her, wondering how far we'll get before our paths separate.
    â€˜What position would I play?’ she asks, looking up at me.
    I give her a confused look.
    â€˜On the team,’ she says.
    â€˜Oh right.’ I think: she's shortish, definitely not petite, not huge either, but solid, like a hooker on a footy team. And then I say it, ‘Hooker.’
    â€˜Thanks a lot.’
    â€˜No. I mean. Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.’
    â€˜Then how do you mean it?’
    â€˜I mean,’ but I stop before I make things worse. ‘The hooker is a position on the team. He's often at dummy half. Always in the action.’
    â€˜Dummy what? Is this some dirty joke?’
    â€˜No!’ I raise my hands in desperation. ‘I'm trying to—’ but give up.
    She stops walking. ‘Trying