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Authors: Melina Marchetta
Tags: Fiction
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can’t help feeling relieved and guilty.
But most of all, I feel a little less empty than the day before.
chapter 9
IT’S THURSDAY AFTERNOON , and we have sports. These are the choices for the girls: watching an invitational cricket game; studying in one of the classrooms; or watching the senior rugby league. As you can imagine, I’m torn.
William Trombal is standing on the platform of the bus in his league shorts and jersey as I step on.
“What are you doing?”
He’s speaking to me. There is something on his face I can’t recognize. It looks a bit like panic and I’m confused.
“Going to the rugby game,” I explain politely.
“I think you’ll enjoy the cricket.”
“Based on the match fixing and controversial rotating roster, I’m ideologically opposed to cricket.”
I try to step past him, but he goes as far as putting his arm across to block me. A you’re-not-going-anywhere arm.
“Is there a problem here?” Tara Finke asks, pushing forward. He has no choice but to let us on.
I get a glare the whole way there. I don’t know what it is with this guy. One minute he’s totally conceited, next minute there’s a bit of sympathy, then there’s the hostility, and today there’s everything, including a bit of anxiousness.
I’ve got to give the Sebastian boys this. They’ve got heart. But skill? After watching them play, I feel a whole lot better about the basketball game. They get so thrashed that even Tara Finke is yelling, “This is an outrage!”
But they never give in, not once, and half the time I think they’re bloody idiots and the other half I can’t help cheering if they even touch the ball. The score is too pitiful to divulge. The other side are kind of bastards and our guys are bleeding and, strangely enough, every single time William Trombal gets thumped by those Neanderthals, my heart beats into a panic.
On the way back to school, I sit facing him and he’s in his own miserable world. I actually think he wants to cry, but that revolting male protocol of not crying when you feel like shit just kicks in. He looks at me for a moment, and I feel as if I should be nice and look away, but I don’t.
“Why don’t you just stick to what you’re good at?” I find myself asking.
“I warned you,” he says gruffly.
“You didn’t say there was going to be blood.”
“You should have gone to the cricket game.”
“Do they win?” I ask.
“Every time.”
“Then why don’t you join the cricket team?”
He’s horrified. “It’s not about winning!”
We approach the school, and the first of the guys shuffles past and pats William Trombal on the back. He’s their leader, although half their size.
“Maybe next week we’ll be able to score, Will.”
“You played a great game,” one says.
“No, mate, you did.”
“No. You did, mate.”
They go on forever. It’s nauseating stuff, but there’s no blaming. They get off the bus smiling tiredly.
Oh God, don’t let me like these guys.
In legal studies, we debate refugees, because Mr. Brolin hasn’t prepared a lesson and he wants us to do the work. Based on our detention relationship, he always calls on me, and on principle I refuse to give in.
“What’s your opinion, Miss Spinelli?” he asks (he pronounces it spin-a-lee). He does the stare that doesn’t intimidate any of us. It almost makes me want to laugh out loud.
“What’s your opinion, Mr. Brolin?” Tara Finke asks.
She gets into trouble for speaking without putting up her hand.
“What I think isn’t the issue, Miss Finke.”
“Why?” she persists.
I can guarantee he won’t give his opinion. He sits on the fence in the name of professionalism and gets someone else to voice his fascist views (I’ve got to stop sitting next to Tara Finke), and around here, there’s always a candidate.
“Why should we let people in who jump the line?” Brian Turner asks. He’s unimportant in the scheme of things, but he would be so shocked if someone
But most of all, I feel a little less empty than the day before.
chapter 9
IT’S THURSDAY AFTERNOON , and we have sports. These are the choices for the girls: watching an invitational cricket game; studying in one of the classrooms; or watching the senior rugby league. As you can imagine, I’m torn.
William Trombal is standing on the platform of the bus in his league shorts and jersey as I step on.
“What are you doing?”
He’s speaking to me. There is something on his face I can’t recognize. It looks a bit like panic and I’m confused.
“Going to the rugby game,” I explain politely.
“I think you’ll enjoy the cricket.”
“Based on the match fixing and controversial rotating roster, I’m ideologically opposed to cricket.”
I try to step past him, but he goes as far as putting his arm across to block me. A you’re-not-going-anywhere arm.
“Is there a problem here?” Tara Finke asks, pushing forward. He has no choice but to let us on.
I get a glare the whole way there. I don’t know what it is with this guy. One minute he’s totally conceited, next minute there’s a bit of sympathy, then there’s the hostility, and today there’s everything, including a bit of anxiousness.
I’ve got to give the Sebastian boys this. They’ve got heart. But skill? After watching them play, I feel a whole lot better about the basketball game. They get so thrashed that even Tara Finke is yelling, “This is an outrage!”
But they never give in, not once, and half the time I think they’re bloody idiots and the other half I can’t help cheering if they even touch the ball. The score is too pitiful to divulge. The other side are kind of bastards and our guys are bleeding and, strangely enough, every single time William Trombal gets thumped by those Neanderthals, my heart beats into a panic.
On the way back to school, I sit facing him and he’s in his own miserable world. I actually think he wants to cry, but that revolting male protocol of not crying when you feel like shit just kicks in. He looks at me for a moment, and I feel as if I should be nice and look away, but I don’t.
“Why don’t you just stick to what you’re good at?” I find myself asking.
“I warned you,” he says gruffly.
“You didn’t say there was going to be blood.”
“You should have gone to the cricket game.”
“Do they win?” I ask.
“Every time.”
“Then why don’t you join the cricket team?”
He’s horrified. “It’s not about winning!”
We approach the school, and the first of the guys shuffles past and pats William Trombal on the back. He’s their leader, although half their size.
“Maybe next week we’ll be able to score, Will.”
“You played a great game,” one says.
“No, mate, you did.”
“No. You did, mate.”
They go on forever. It’s nauseating stuff, but there’s no blaming. They get off the bus smiling tiredly.
Oh God, don’t let me like these guys.
In legal studies, we debate refugees, because Mr. Brolin hasn’t prepared a lesson and he wants us to do the work. Based on our detention relationship, he always calls on me, and on principle I refuse to give in.
“What’s your opinion, Miss Spinelli?” he asks (he pronounces it spin-a-lee). He does the stare that doesn’t intimidate any of us. It almost makes me want to laugh out loud.
“What’s your opinion, Mr. Brolin?” Tara Finke asks.
She gets into trouble for speaking without putting up her hand.
“What I think isn’t the issue, Miss Finke.”
“Why?” she persists.
I can guarantee he won’t give his opinion. He sits on the fence in the name of professionalism and gets someone else to voice his fascist views (I’ve got to stop sitting next to Tara Finke), and around here, there’s always a candidate.
“Why should we let people in who jump the line?” Brian Turner asks. He’s unimportant in the scheme of things, but he would be so shocked if someone
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