Read Online The Year My Life Broke by John Marsden - Free Book Online Page B

before. You said I could wear a chicken suit.’
    â€˜Your offer was fraudulent,’ he said. ‘You withheld vital information.’
    That word ‘fraudulent’ got right up my nostrils. People had used it about my parents. I knew I was in the middle of a major anger management episode. I struggled to control myself.
    â€˜OK,’ I said, trying to speak really slowly. ‘Fair enough. I admit I’ve been acting like a bit of a low-life since I got here. But now I’d really like to play for Tarrawagga.’
    He stood there staring at me. I was sure he was about to measure me up for the chicken suit.
    â€˜It’s not very fair on the kids who’ve been training all this time if you just waltz up and walk straight into the team,’ he said.
    â€˜I know that,’ I said. ‘But if a new kid turned up today who was good enough to get in, I guess you’d take him.’
    â€˜That’s different,’ he said. He looked at Red. ‘What do you think, Redmond?’
    I was a bit shocked. Not many teachers would ask a kid’s opinion like that. I crossed my fingers. After all, it was less than 48 hours since Red had tried to strangle me outside a toilet block.
    Red looked up at the ceiling. It was a few seconds before he answered.
    â€˜I reckon everyone’s entitled to a second go,’ he said.
    Mr Surrey thought about that for a while. Teachers and kids were coming into the hall for assembly. Finally he nodded. ‘All right,’ he said.
    Seemed like I was in the team.

My first lunchtime practice was embarrassing. I rocked up as soon as I could, but walked into an earthquake of laughter. ‘Ohmigod, look what’s here,’ was the only comment I actually heard, among all the noise. I didn’t know what to say. One thing for sure, I didn’t want to make a speech to every kid explaining how in one weekend I could go from someone who didn’t know which end of the bat to hold to someone who could hit a ball that went vaguely where I wanted it to go.
    It turned out that I didn’t have to make any speeches, because I didn’t have to do anything. Mr Surrey put me in the outfield, where I mooched around drawing patterns in the dust with my toe. Like Red, I couldn’t wait to get onto the new oval, with its beautiful surface of fresh grass. The old oval, which we were using for practice, had a surface like the Simpson Desert.
    I had to field a couple of balls, which I stopped easily enough, throwing them in without any fuss. I was pretty keen not to stand out. It was halfway through practice the next day before Mr Surrey finally decided I could come in from the dunes. Suddenly he beckoned me, and pointed to the non-striker’s end. I ran over, grabbed a bat and took up my position. Rolf was at the other end. He blocked a couple of balls, then hit an easy single.
    I jogged down the pitch. The ball was chucked back to the keeper and he lobbed it over my head to the bowler. I took guard. My moment of truth had arrived. Every member of the team who thought he or she had a sense of humour was enjoying a good time at my expense. You couldn’t even call it sledging, because they didn’t take me seriously enough to sledge me. They were just entertaining each other with comments like, ‘Get him a piano – he’d have a better chance of playing that’, ‘Get a car, see if he can drive’ and ‘Have a look at the back of the bat, Josh – it might have instructions.’
    The only exception was Harriet, who was fielding at leg slip. When I looked around I caught her eye. She wasn’t saying anything. She just had a little smile, like someone who’s seen something funny that no-one else has noticed.
    I turned back to face the bowler. I tried to concentrate on the ball. Lately, after a comment from Wally, I’d been working on my follow-through. I’d been trying to exaggerate it a bit, to make sure