SUSSEX HIGH

I’ve seen my share of counsellor offices this past year.

This one belongs to Ms MacGillivray, Sussex Guidance Officer. It doesn’t fit the usual mould. Yes, there are the motivational messages on posters and notepads and screensavers: Always set the trail, never follow the path; Success is a journey, not a destination; and Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude. But there’s also Believe in yourself, because the rest of us think you’re a tool and Everything in life is easier when you know the cheat codes. Then there are the roller-derby merch and ads, framed Bris-Banshee T-shirts with signatures all over, a maroon helmet with a yellow star on the side. Several framed action pics feature Ms MacGillivray herself in fluoro orange skates, busting through a pack in camo get-up, sitting in the penalty box with arms extended. According to the captions, her derby name is Bail ’Er Swift.

‘First day at Sussex!’ she says, elbows resting on her desk. She has a big yellow bruise on her right arm. ‘How are you finding it, Munro?’

‘Okay so far, Ms MacGillivray.’

‘Call me Ms Mac. Uniform looks great.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Bit of a change from the fashion show back home, I imagine.’

‘I wasn’t much of a model anyway.’

Ms Mac smirks and says, ‘Nice!’

I hear it as noise. In my short time in Australia, there’s been a lot of noise.

‘Subject selection all right?’ she asks.

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Your situation is not that different to the other 11s. You want to take the best possible marks and credits into your final year of secondary school. Your Year 12 will be back in Canada, of course, but the subjects are comparable and transferable. We can talk about that a bit more once you’re underway, hey?’ She takes a sip from a travel mug. ‘The purpose of this little check-in is much more casual. I’d like to get to know you a tad.’ She waits, allowing me to fully absorb the statement. I suppress a yawn. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘Give’r.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Just a Canadian expression. It means “go nuts”.’

‘Give’r.’ Ms Mac writes it down on a Post-it. ‘So, tell me, you’re from Vancouver?’

‘Yes.’

‘Great city. Family?’

‘Mum and Dad. Married. To each other.’

‘Brothers, sisters?’

‘No.’

‘Just you?’

‘Just me.’

Ms Mac scribbles another note. I look away. A groundskeeper framed in the window is fertilising the main courtyard garden.

She’ll find out about Evie, Munro.

No, she won’t.

You’ve already told the Hydes. They’ll tell her.

They don’t know squat. And they won’t say a word, to her or anyone else. I made them promise yesterday.

You’re treating her like she never existed.

No, I’m not.

‘Munro. Hey, Munro. You with me?’

‘Um, yeah. I’m with you. Sorry.’

‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

Ms Mac dips her head to the side, closes an eye, points a finger. She’s taking aim with her guidance gun. ‘You were off with the fairies, there.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise. This is a big change. Six months is a long time to be out of your comfort zone.’

I suck in a breath, exhale. ‘For sure.’

‘You’re in good hands with the Hydes, though. They’re top shelf. Did Rowan tell you his father’s a legend in this town?’

‘Uh, no. He didn’t.’

‘I’ll let him fill you in.’

Ms MacGillivray says getting to know me has not yet reached a tad, but this is a good moment to inform me about all the amazing cultural opportunities at Sussex. Challenges and olympiads, workshops and camps. There is the Computational and Algorithmic Thinking Competition and something else called the Sleek Geeks Science Eureka Prize. The school has more bands than Coachella. The compulsory volunteering program kicks off next week – a great chance to do some good for the community and myself, she assures me.

‘Now then,’ Ms Mac says. ‘The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question … What is your “-er” word?’

‘My “-er” word?’

‘Yep. What is your “-er” word, Munro?’ She drums the desk, her short fingernails painted with yellow lightning bolts against a black background. Her smile widens with each passing second. The bruise on her arm is staring at me.

‘I’m sorry, miss … I don’t …’

Ms Mac rises and gestures for me to follow. We end up in front of the picture of her in the penalty box yelling at the unseen ref.

‘Every Sussex student should have a goal for the year – well, for you it’s six months – and in my experience it helps to attach an “-er” word to it. Smarter, happier. Clearer.’ She points at the picture. ‘Louder. Whatever “-er” word you choose, it should always be in the back of your head, informing everything you do.’ She holds up a hand. ‘Now, don’t feel like you need to come up with your word right this minute. Pretty much every student takes some time to think about it, stew it over, before they come back to me and –’

‘I have it, miss.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I have my “-er” word.’

Ms Mac does a minor double-take. ‘That might be a record.’ She taps out a brief rhythm on her thigh. ‘Okay then, hit me.’

Can I guess?

No.

Taller?

What did I say?

Super?

Shut up!

It can’t be ‘brother’.

I flex my right hand.

‘“Better” is my word, miss. I want to be better.’

‘Ready to meet the gang?’ Rowan asks.

‘I guess.’

We skirt the library and the art studio. I focus on the things that distance this school from DSS. Gum trees. Shade tarpaulins. A tribute mural to the Flood Heroes of 2011. A collection of highway signs that includes Canberra – 1199 km and Uluru – 2205 km and Broome – 3320 km.

‘How’d it go with Ms Mac?’

‘You mean Bail ’Er Swift?’

Rowan turns, eyebrows high on his forehead. ‘She’s changed her derby name already? Her last one was Kim Karbashian.’

‘She wanted to get to know me a tad.’

‘Did she give you the old “What’s your ‘-er’ word” speech?’

‘You’ve had it, too?’

‘We all have.’ Rowan says hi to a trio of girls. After they pass, I hear murmurings and laughter and new talent. ‘My “-er” word for the year is legendary-er.’

‘Good word.’

We arrive at the soccer field, site of a Welcome back! lunch for senior students. Five food trucks are parked in a semicircle near the centre. A few tables, chairs and benches are strewn around, but most of the students are sitting on the grass. We wander towards a group of four – one boy, three girls – occupying the front right corner of the sideline bleachers. They’re chowing down like it’s the only meal they’ll get all year.

‘You couldn’t wait five minutes?’ asks Rowan, stealing a pierogi from one of the girls and barely escaping a slap.

‘We thought you might be bringing your own truck, Chef Row,’ answers the boy, mouth full of brisket. ‘Although, these are good. And I don’t think they’ll be runnin’ outta food any time soon.’

‘They might if you’re here for another half-hour,’ one of the girls says.

‘Ha! This coming from Renee Hodges, champ of last year’s watermelon eating contest!’

‘That was a comp, this is real life. Or the buffet, as you call it.’

‘Can you two get a room?’

‘Ew, Maevey! I’m tryin’ to eat here!’

‘Munro,’ announces Rowan, ‘meet the gang. Renee, Caro, Digger and Maeve.’

I had hoped ‘the gang’ would resemble the stereotypical Aussies in Whistler – tanned skin, sun-bleached hair, flip-flops, Billabong logos everywhere. Sadly, they’re more like my friends in the valley than their mates on the mountain. Maeve reminds me of Darcy, with her selfie-stick arms and stylish glasses. Renee, sitting cross-legged, both hands on the top knee, back straighter than a prairie highway – she’s totally Shawn, septum ring and all. Digger has Louis’s peach fuzz and startled hair. I sigh. It was unfair to expect these strangers to be a postcard just so I could stomach school again. Actually, now that I think about it, Mr Adams – Evie’s idol, the best Australian who ever lived – was bald and round and wore Denver Hayes jeans that sagged in the crotch. Not exactly a poster boy for the Aussie look.

Caro – she’s a bit different. Nuit, one of a handful of words I remember from Grade 9 French, springs to mind. She’s a collection of dark shades: skin, hair, black leather wristbands, grey Converse. Her expression, though, is all light and bright. Her eyes are big and wide. Her mouth looks ready to break into a smile, even when filled with ramen noodles. The stud in her nose glints like shaved ice in the sun.

Rowan hustles me over to the food trucks. After a scan of menus, I go for an Oz Burger, which includes a fried egg and beetroot. We head back to the group, and I dig in, trying to give off the YOLO-teen vibe.

‘I can’t wait for The Addams Family,’ says Maeve. ‘It’s so cool we’re doing that for our musical.’

‘You going to audition?’ asks Renee.

‘Hells yeah! I want to play Wednesday. If not her, then Morticia.’

‘As long as it’s not Fester.’

‘Word.’

Digger looks over at Rowan and me. ‘You got any idea what they’re talking about?’

‘None,’ replies Rowan, scrutinising his samosa. ‘How about you, Renee? What have you got circled on the calendar?’

‘Hmm, it’s a toss-up between Vaccination Day and the athletics carnival.’

‘Ooh yeah, tough choice.’

‘And you, Mr My Kitchen Rules? You counting the days until the Great State High School Cook-off?’

‘Nope. I’m all about the ski trip in July.’ Rowan spreads his feet, extends his arms and performs a series of gyrations, more hula dance than snowboard shred. ‘Your turn, Digs. Lemme guess – driving your old man’s Prius to school?’

Digger shakes his head. ‘Semi-formal. I’m going to have the best date of anyone there.’ He eyes each one of us in turn. ‘Jessica Mauboy.’

A hush parachutes in. Rowan plays with his phone, then hands it to me. The screen displays Jessica Mauboy’s Wikipedia page. Twenty-six. Singer. Songwriter. Actress. Runner-up on Australian Idol. Ranked 16 on the Herald Sun list of the 100 Greatest Australian Singers of All Time. The one credit I recognise is her starring role in The Sapphires. It was one of many Australian movies Evie tracked down on Netflix. She watched them all at least twice.

‘Jessica Mauboy, A-list celeb, and Corey “Digger” Dulwich, BMX prodigy.’ Rowan nods slowly. ‘Why the hell not?’

‘Why the hell not!’ repeats Maeve.

‘I can see it happening,’ says Caro.

‘I think you might be a bit too good for her, but whatever,’ adds Renee.

The group looks my way. I swallow my final chunk of Oz Burger. ‘Try not to break her heart, eh?’

Digger bites his bottom lip. His Adam’s apple begins to bounce. He gets to his feet, descends the bleachers and jogs over to the food trucks.

‘He might be a while,’ says Rowan. ‘You’re up, Caro.’

‘Mmm, hard act to follow.’ Caro shifts into a lotus position on the bench. ‘What I am looking forward to the most in Year 11 is … I’d have to say it’s the end.’ A chorus of groans prompts her to elaborate. ‘I’m not dreading the year. Totally the opposite, in fact. This year is gonna be great – our best yet. I honestly believe that, and that’s why the end is the best part. We’ll be more grown up. We’ll have learned new things, made new friends.’ She glances in my direction. ‘And we’ll be doing it together.’

Maeve gives Caro’s forearm a squeeze. ‘That’s a beautiful speech, babe. You’re gonna be an awesome lawyer one day. Don’t you agree, Renee?’

‘Ha! She said “doing it”.’

‘There you go. Renee agrees, too.’

Rowan gestures to me. ‘Lucky last, Munro.’

I fold my paper plate in half, scan for the nearest bin. ‘I’m the newbie. You guys don’t want to hear from me.’

‘Rubbish, mate. You’re one of us now! You’re wearing our dope uniform. You ate your first Oz Burger. You’ve already had a heart-to-heart with Ms Mac. Tell us – what are you fired up for?’

I look at the group’s expectant faces.

They’re all watching, Munro.

Just like at DSS, when the ambulance arrived, when it left.

At the funeral.

I lower my gaze towards the folded plate balancing on my lap.

‘I’m with Caro,’ I say. ‘I’m looking forward to the end.’

On the train home, Rowan slouches in the seat across from me. As we pass through a tunnel, he drops his headphones from his ears to his neck, digs in his back pocket and hands me an ad for a place called Liber8.

‘It’s one of those escape room set-ups,’ he says. ‘You get locked away and you’ve got an hour to use the clues to find a way out. Heard of ’em?’

I nod. ‘My friend Louis did one in Richmond. It was like an ancient Egyptian tomb or something.’

‘Sweet. Apparently, this one has an asylum like they used to have here in Brissie. I’ve got some discount passes. Me and the gang are gunna go do it Friday week. Keen?’

‘Um, yeah. Sure.’

‘Beauty.’

Rowan takes back the paper, his grin crooked and twitchy. ‘You and Caro hit it off, hey?’

‘I guess so.’

‘The two of you had a good chat on the way back from lunch.’

‘Just sort of happened. I hope I wasn’t outta line.’

‘Nope.’

‘She wanted to know about Canada.’

‘She wanted to know about you.’ Rowan removes his headphones, starts winding the cord around the earpieces. ‘I noticed when Caro asked you about your fam, you said you were an only child.’

I pause my game of Temple Run. ‘Thanks for not spilling the beans.’

‘Hey, they’re your beans.’ Rowan looks out the window. ‘I know you’ve only just met ’em, but if you did want to tell the gang about your sister, I know they’d be chill about it.’

A lull creeps into the conversation. The guy behind me is telling friends about a parkour shoot he’s planning. The pouty girls across the aisle are comparing ‘slags’ on The Bachelor. A younger crew, probably Grade 8s, are discussing Splatoon strategy.

‘Ms Mac said your dad is a legend in Brisbane.’

Rowan runs a hand down his school tie. ‘Yeah, he is.’

‘What did he do …? If you’re cool with telling me.’

‘It’s cool. You would’ve found out soon enough.’ Rowan shifts, puts his hands on his knees and brings his feet together. He looks like he’s posing for a family photo. ‘Dad swam out and saved a guy in the Logan River during the 2011 floods. Pulled him out of his car. He was given the Star of Courage and the Queensland Police Service Valour Award, which is the highest honour in the state for a cop.’

‘I didn’t realise he was a policeman.’

‘Retired in 2014. Permanent medical leave.’

I leave a good-sized space for Rowan to continue, but he slips back into his slouch. There are things I want to ask – impressions dying for a few details – but I keep quiet.

I’m not the only one telling stories on my own terms.

For supper, the Hydes take me to a local restaurant called Thai Me Kangaroo Down. The conversation starts off harmless. I pass on a few news items, things I have a vague awareness of since arriving in Oz. The past year was the hottest yet, but it was only the eleventh hottest in Canadian history. The cover art of Drake’s upcoming album, Views, couldn’t be any worse than his If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late mixtape. True to my prediction at the start of the season, the Canucks have no chance to make the NHL play-offs.

‘It’s so different over there, isn’t it?’ says Nina. ‘I mean, for a country that’s got a lot in common with us, there’s a heap of things that make it – I don’t know – foreign. Exotic, even.’ She scoops rice into her bowl and returns the dish to the centre of the table. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you, Munro.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Why Australia? Was there something that made you want to come? Or someone?’

I set aside my chopsticks and wipe my mouth with a napkin. Possible answers wheel through my mind. The trip as a poor substitute for Evie’s aspirations? Nonstarter. A need to escape home for a while? Makes my parents sound like assholes – definitely not the case. A throwaway line about Down Under being a prime destination for every Canadian? That was Evie’s dream, not mine.

There is one other option, something of a last resort. I suspect it will shut down any similar questions in future. I look around the restaurant. Too bad it has to be said in public.

Maybe you should tell the Hydes everything this time.

Maybe you should leave me the fuck alone.

‘Evie had this teacher – Mr Adams, from Australia. Brisbane, actually. She loved being in his class. She learned a lot with him – so many things that would’ve helped her live a full and happy life. She was thankful for everything he did. And, on the day my sister died, so was I.’

A small gasp escapes Nina’s mouth.

‘Evie and Mr Adams were walking over to the library. Coming out of English class, Evie had said she wasn’t feeling great, so Mr Adams was holding her hand. He noticed the blue colour of her lips was darker than usual. As they passed by the World War II honour board, Evie stumbled. Mr Adams said “oopsie-doodles” and kept his grip, preventing a crash into the wall. He was about to suggest a visit to First-aid when Evie stumbled again. The second time was different. She was real heavy, as if invisible hands were pushing her to the ground. She dropped and the weight was too much for him.’

A group of fifteen at the large table in the centre of the restaurant start singing ‘Happy Birthday’. The Hydes aren’t distracted, all three lean slightly forward in their seats. Nina is teary, her eyes and the tip of her nose shaded red. Geordie mops his brow. Rowan has his arms folded, as if the temperature in the room has dropped several degrees. My throat is tight, but it doesn’t stop the stream of words.

‘Evie hit a drinking fountain with her shoulder, twisted and ended up on her right side. The group of students walking behind her – Grade 12s – almost tripped over her. Mr Adams told them to stand back and got down on his knees. He turned Evie over. She looked like she was napping. She looked like she was dreaming.’

Wow, you know so much about what happened, Munro! It’s like you were looking over Mr Adams’ shoulder!

Shut up.

‘Mr Adams worked on her for ten minutes. Chest compressions, occasional breaths. He didn’t stop, not when the crowd gathered, not when the shouting and the crying started, not when one of the school captains fainted. He didn’t stop when the first-aid officer arrived with a defibrillator. He kept going. He kept going when it was obvious he should give up. He still had his hands interlocked, ready for compression, when the paramedics took her away in the ambulance.’

I cough, a raspy hack into the crook of my elbow. Over at the birthday table they’ve broken out the sparklers.

‘Mr Adams,’ I conclude, ‘is the reason I wanted to come here.’

LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!

Amid the hand-wringing and the tissue-clutching, both Nina and Rowan zero in on Geordie. If he’s aware of their attention, he doesn’t let on. He pulls on the collar of his dress shirt and splits the silence.

‘He did his best, Mr Adams. That’s all you can do. I hope he understands that.’ He presses on his forehead for a few seconds then releases a breath, the sound like a hand pump inflating a bike tyre. ‘Do you want to track him down, Munro? Is that what you’re hoping to do?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m not here to find Mr Adams, sir, but I do want to find his spirit. I think I’ve found some of it already in this family.’

This acts as a reboot. Nina goes to the washroom ‘for repairs’; on the way back she high-fives the birthday boy at the centre table. Geordie teaches me a few verses of ‘Waltzing Matilda’, assuring me the ‘jolly swagman’ wasn’t at all jolly but a very poor decision-maker. Rowan recounts the school day, rating my performance a nine out of ten, the loss of a mark due to my ill-advised wish for some Frank’s RedHot Sauce to put on my Oz Burger. By the time dessert is done and the bill is paid, the Hyde computer is back to normal, the Maddux blue screen of death now gone.

Mum and Dad

You’ll be pleased to know I survived my first week at Sussex State High. It’s not as different as I’d hoped. I guess school is school, no matter what part of the world you’re in. It was an okay week, though. I will go back again next week.

I met the counsellor (guidance, not crisis). She gave me the lowdown on everything. They’re big on volunteering here – you have to do fifty hours in first semester of Grade 11. Not sure where I’ll go at this stage.

Rowan invited me to do one of those escape-room puzzles with his friends next weekend. He says the place has an old Brisbane asylum set-up for one of the rooms. You and Dad are probably hoping I don’t get out. I don’t blame you.

How’s the campaign shaping up? Did the film shoot go okay? I’ll keep an eye out for it on the website.

Ciao for now.

M

Ringing. A FaceTime call. It’s 6 am, Vancouver time. Lou, perennial morning person, is on the other end.

‘Yo, Munrovia! Awesome to see you, bud! How’s the land of Silverchair?’

A pang of homesickness hits. Ah, Louis Erasmus and his stacks of retro grunge vinyls, all those tracks laid down before we were born. When I told him I was doing the exchange, he quoted one of the songs in his collection – something about me looking California and him feeling Minnesota. He held a hand to his chest as he said it, much like he’s doing now.

‘Friendly,’ I reply. ‘They like the accent.’

‘Maybe they’re mistaking you for Ryan Gosling.’

‘For sure. He’s got the same chicken legs and ponytail as me.’

We talk for ten minutes, me doing most of the talking. I update him on the weather (hot), the Hydes (cool), the first week of school (I survived).

‘How are the Aussie honeys?’ asks Lou.

An image of Caro sneaks into my head, more a silhouette than an image. Night-time. Nuit. ‘I’ve only been here seven days.’

‘That’s plenty for Ryan Gosling. Come to think of it, I imagine you’re the honey over there. You’re the honey and those Aussie girls are a bunch of bears sniffing around you.’

‘You’ve got quite the imagination.’

‘Man, I wish I could get a bear sniffing around me.’

‘Thanks for the visual.’

Lou smiles. ‘It’s real good to see you joking around, homes. Been a while.’

‘True dat.’

Lou starts twirling a pen around his thumb. He looks away. ‘So, I’m sorry to kill the buzz … I saw your mum and dad at Save-On yesterday. They told me you’d made it over okay, said you were settling in with your host family. They looked pretty bummed about the whole thing, to tell you the truth.’

I rub my face and nod. ‘Yeah, the exchange was kind of a last resort to keep me in school. They only agreed because I thought it could work.’

‘I think they regret letting you do it.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m making the effort to keep in touch, though. I’m sending emails and we’ll FaceTime soon.’ I flex my hand, trying to shake off the pins and needles. ‘It’s only six months.’

‘Six months,’ repeats Lou. He rakes his hair, turning his ginger bed of coals into a bonfire. ‘You sure you’re coming back?’

‘They don’t do extensions.’

‘No, I mean you sure you’re coming back?’

My head drops. ‘Is this about what happened in the gym storeroom again? I told you fifty times already, Lou – that was a joke!’

‘Dude, you pointed a starter’s gun at your chest and said you were going to put a hole in your heart, same as Evie.’

‘I didn’t say it was a good joke.’

Lou pushes forward, crowding the screen. His face could double as a Halloween mask. ‘If you ever need to talk, I’m here for you, brother. Any hour of the day or night. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘Okay!’ I fold my arms. ‘So, how about those Canucks? Or are you not finished going all Teen Helpline on my ass?’

You weren’t joking when you put that gun to your chest, Munro.

Yes, I was.

No, you weren’t.

It was a starter’s gun. It didn’t even have any caps in it.

But you thought about a real gun, didn’t you? You thought about how it would feel in your hand. You thought about how hard you would have to squeeze the trigger. You thought about how the bullet would feel going into your body, how much pain there would be. You thought about how it would be over in a second. You thought it might not be the worst thing that could happen.