Brenton Lumsden had a fag in one hand and in the other a pastie, half out of its bag. Sauce smeared his lower lip and his tight brown pullover. Skip’s eyes darted up and down the passage. At the other end stood Shaun Kenny, sneering; Andreas Haskas appeared behind him. Next to Brenton Lumsden stood Honza Novak.
The fat boy devoured the last of his pastie, balled up the bag and flung it to the ground. He licked his fingers. ‘See here,’ he said after a moment, ‘you got our mate into trouble, you did. Why’d you do that, Skippy?’
Skip, pretending a boldness she didn’t feel, started forward as if to push her way past, but Brenton Lumsden set plump hands on his hips like Henry VIII and stood his ground. ‘We don’t like squealers,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to squeal on us again, eh, Skippy? I reckon a binning’s in order.’
He grabbed Honza by the collar, thrust him towards her, then stood back, smirking, as his henchmen closed in. Skip swung her fists. It was no good. One boy punched her, another pushed her, and she fell, jarring her hip. Honza Novak seized her feet. Shaun Kenny grabbed her hands. As she swung into the air, her vision zigzagged over shadows, sky, planks, pipes, galvanised iron, dirt, grass, concrete, Honza Novak grinning, Shaun Kenny biting his lip, and Andreas Haskas, silver circle upraised, like a waiter removing with a flourish a cloche from a dramatic dish.
They flung her headfirst into a bin.
Skip gagged. Stench filled her nostrils. Something sharp stuck into her forearm; something sticky seeped across her neck. She tried to push herself out, but when she pressed down with her hands they only sank deeper into a mulch of grass clippings, banana skins, balled-up lunch bags, ripped-off wrappings, cigarette butts and half-eaten sandwiches.
First the shit pit, now this! Skip hated Crater Lakes.
She braced herself on the edge of the bin. Grip the rim, that’s the idea. Haul yourself up. Her first attempt failed and she slipped back. She despised herself. Why must she be so small, so female? One day, she told herself, I’ll kill Brenton Lumsden.
Skip had resumed her struggles when a battering filled her ears – the sound of hands, feet, clambering up beside her. Somebodygrabbed her shoulders. What now? Were they going to force her deeper into the filth? She kicked and thrashed; the hands only gripped her shoulders more firmly, but then she felt them pull her up. Gracelessly she rode over the bin’s high edge and tumbled to the ground.
Beside her stood a bashful Honza Novak. He signalled to her to be quiet, and whispered, ‘Said I was going to the bog.’
‘What?’ Skip spat out the word. Her brown skirt had ridden up on her thighs and she slapped it down angrily. She wanted to wear jeans. She only ever wanted to wear jeans.
‘Come to see if you was all right,’ said Honza.
She punched him, hard, in the stomach and ran: ran and ran, not back towards the school buildings but across the oval, dodging footballs, fights, games of tag. Cries rang after her: ‘What happened to her?’ and ‘Get a load of that!’
When she made it to the boundary her left hip ached and she was gasping for breath, but she hurled herself at the chain-link fence, scaled it, and dropped to the ground below.
‘Streuth! Who dragged you through a hedge backwards?’ Doug Puce goggled at his niece. Hunched over rickety scales, he had measured out carpet tacks in a spiky heap; his customer, a seamy-naped fellow in saggy overalls, turned, elbow on counter, and blinked at the new arrival.
Skip caught her breath. ‘Where’s Marlo?’
‘Out back.’ Uncle Doug jerked a thumb and Skip, without pause, ducked under the flap in the counter and vanished through a curtain of plastic streamers as he called, ‘Eh, love, shouldn’t you be at school?’
‘Skip!’ In the back room, Marlo rose from a cluttered desk. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing! I fell in a bin.’
‘Just
The fat boy devoured the last of his pastie, balled up the bag and flung it to the ground. He licked his fingers. ‘See here,’ he said after a moment, ‘you got our mate into trouble, you did. Why’d you do that, Skippy?’
Skip, pretending a boldness she didn’t feel, started forward as if to push her way past, but Brenton Lumsden set plump hands on his hips like Henry VIII and stood his ground. ‘We don’t like squealers,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to squeal on us again, eh, Skippy? I reckon a binning’s in order.’
He grabbed Honza by the collar, thrust him towards her, then stood back, smirking, as his henchmen closed in. Skip swung her fists. It was no good. One boy punched her, another pushed her, and she fell, jarring her hip. Honza Novak seized her feet. Shaun Kenny grabbed her hands. As she swung into the air, her vision zigzagged over shadows, sky, planks, pipes, galvanised iron, dirt, grass, concrete, Honza Novak grinning, Shaun Kenny biting his lip, and Andreas Haskas, silver circle upraised, like a waiter removing with a flourish a cloche from a dramatic dish.
They flung her headfirst into a bin.
Skip gagged. Stench filled her nostrils. Something sharp stuck into her forearm; something sticky seeped across her neck. She tried to push herself out, but when she pressed down with her hands they only sank deeper into a mulch of grass clippings, banana skins, balled-up lunch bags, ripped-off wrappings, cigarette butts and half-eaten sandwiches.
First the shit pit, now this! Skip hated Crater Lakes.
She braced herself on the edge of the bin. Grip the rim, that’s the idea. Haul yourself up. Her first attempt failed and she slipped back. She despised herself. Why must she be so small, so female? One day, she told herself, I’ll kill Brenton Lumsden.
Skip had resumed her struggles when a battering filled her ears – the sound of hands, feet, clambering up beside her. Somebodygrabbed her shoulders. What now? Were they going to force her deeper into the filth? She kicked and thrashed; the hands only gripped her shoulders more firmly, but then she felt them pull her up. Gracelessly she rode over the bin’s high edge and tumbled to the ground.
Beside her stood a bashful Honza Novak. He signalled to her to be quiet, and whispered, ‘Said I was going to the bog.’
‘What?’ Skip spat out the word. Her brown skirt had ridden up on her thighs and she slapped it down angrily. She wanted to wear jeans. She only ever wanted to wear jeans.
‘Come to see if you was all right,’ said Honza.
She punched him, hard, in the stomach and ran: ran and ran, not back towards the school buildings but across the oval, dodging footballs, fights, games of tag. Cries rang after her: ‘What happened to her?’ and ‘Get a load of that!’
When she made it to the boundary her left hip ached and she was gasping for breath, but she hurled herself at the chain-link fence, scaled it, and dropped to the ground below.
‘Streuth! Who dragged you through a hedge backwards?’ Doug Puce goggled at his niece. Hunched over rickety scales, he had measured out carpet tacks in a spiky heap; his customer, a seamy-naped fellow in saggy overalls, turned, elbow on counter, and blinked at the new arrival.
Skip caught her breath. ‘Where’s Marlo?’
‘Out back.’ Uncle Doug jerked a thumb and Skip, without pause, ducked under the flap in the counter and vanished through a curtain of plastic streamers as he called, ‘Eh, love, shouldn’t you be at school?’
‘Skip!’ In the back room, Marlo rose from a cluttered desk. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing! I fell in a bin.’
‘Just
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