FAIR GO

The three weeks before Easter break were the best three weeks I’d had since Evie’s death. The Straya Tour went to Mount Glorious, the State Library and Suncorp Stadium for a football match. With each trip, I began to get hugs goodbye, saved seats on the bus, rabbit ears in photos. It was all unicorns and double rainbows. Mostly, anyway. Florence started calling me Mr Wrong due to my ongoing avoidance of a right-handed thumb wrestle. Iggy kept insisting the licence plate on the bus be changed so it was more difficult to track. Shah was still largely a nonfactor. The Afghani refugee was awake much of the time, though. I’d like to think our Wednesday afternoons playing checkess had something to do with it. And, by association, Rowan’s deletion of the school’s absent messages.

Caro and I spent a lot of time together. We were still in the friend zone, but that didn’t stop Rowan labelling us ‘Thunder and Lightning’. Back home, the Foundation had its best month to date, in large part because the new video got some run on CTV Morning Live and Breakfast Television.

Last but definitely not least, the Fair Go effect reached Sussex State High.

A lockdown drill came and went without the need for a paper bag to breathe into. A couple of meathead rugby players who suggested I should go back to America got a reply of ‘With yo mama?’ instead of a physical confrontation. I still got the odd token twinges in my chest and my right hand, but there were no full-on freezes, no vivid flashbacks.

No Coyote.

Well, almost. I hardly heard a peep out of him; a comment here, a question there, usually mailed in. It was more a whisper than a voice. It was the clearest evidence yet of improvement. It was nailing the first four letters in the word ‘goodbye’.

Of course, because the life of Munro Maddux could never be completely stress-free, there was still the odd fire to put out.

The first was sparked by YOLO. After the routine check-in with my parents, they beefed up the backgrounder in my Sussex student exchange profile. The add? Mum’s ‘pity poor Munro’ email sent along with my original application.

‘I promise it totally stays on the down low,’ Craig Varzani assured me, and a cringe crawled across my face.

On 16 March, Ms Mac interrupted Geography to summon me to a one-on-one. As we strode in silence to her office, I wondered what she was thinking. Was she upset that I’d deceived her? Mad? Would she body-check me, send me flying? Slameron Diaz certainly had the chops to do it. I risked a look in her direction as we passed the 2011 tribute mural. No bruises or scratches. I didn’t know if it was an omen.

We entered her office. There was a new poster on the wall: Don’t ask me nothing and I won’t tell you no lies – Anonymous. Seemed appropriate. I took a seat. Across from me, Ms Mac pondered, elbows on the desk, hands joined, tips of her fingers tapping out morse code.

‘You’ve been through a lot, Munro,’ she began.

‘It’s in the past, miss,’ I replied.

‘Is it?’

‘Yeah, it is. Evie died over a year ago. I’m here in Australia. I’m enjoying the student exchange. I’m trying to go for “best” and not be satisfied with “better”.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

The clock on the wall checkmarked my performance so far. Tick … tick … tick … tick …

‘I do have to talk to your teachers about this.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means they need to be informed.’

‘How informed?’

‘What info do you reckon they should have?’

‘None.’

‘Because it’s in the past?’

‘I want it to stay that way.’

Ms MacGillivray nodded, once, in slow motion. She suggested telling the teachers that I’d ‘experienced family difficulties’ and ‘may require some special consideration’. Could I handle that? I said I could.

‘There’s one more thing,’ she added. ‘I think you should seriously think about getting some help, Munro.’

‘Sorry?’

‘If “best” is truly your goal, someone should be giving you a helping hand while you’re here.’ Ms Mac rounded the desk, dropped down to her haunches beside my chair. ‘There are a couple of really good people I could recommend, folks who work with young people doing it tough. I could give you their numbers, email addresses.’

‘I’m already in contact with a teen helpline on a regular basis,’ I said. ‘And, just so’s you know, I’m able-bodied. Regular brain. No third copy of chromosome 21. No hole in the heart.’ I nodded. ‘I am the helping hand.’

The second fire was no inferno, but it still needed to be put out. Caro and Rowan must’ve been on to the gang about their bad case of Munro-itis, because they came after me – in class, at lunch, after school, individually and together. Even Renee got in on the act. No more time on my own practising chess or researching popular T-shirt designs or reading comics with obscure superheroes or checking out stories of special-needs marriages or watching videos of made-up martial arts moves. They would find me and befriend me, whether I was down with it or not.

There was plenty of news to update. Maeve’s high light of the school fete was Rowan’s cooking, specifically a batch of ‘to-die-for honey-and-fig bikkies’ he made for the bake sale. Renee passed around her list of heckles for the opening night of The Addams Family (Maeve would be spared any burns). Digger revealed that the pursuit of Jessica Mauboy as his semi-formal date was going to plan; he’d favourited two hundred of her tweets since January. He would pop the question once he’d reached the magic number of three hundred.

I knew they weren’t really reaching out to me; they were just doing it to make Caro and Rowan happy. But I played along. That made Caro and Rowan happy, too.

The third fire to be extinguished was lit by my parents.

We’ll be visiting you soon!

That was the opening line of the email they sent on 21 March. The lines that came after it were just as WTF.

Nina and Geordie invited us to come over and visit. They felt you were a bit homesick and thought you could do with a familiar face (or two!). We were delighted to accept the invitation and I’m looking at flights as I write this!

I won’t lie – a big part of me wanted them to come. A bigger part, though, was fearful about what might happen if they did. I was progressing, I had momentum. Would the Coyote find new life with Mum and Dad on the scene? I didn’t want to find out.

I FaceTimed them the next day. Dad sensed what was coming and the sort of message I was bringing. His first comment came down the line before the video feed had even kicked in.

‘You don’t want us there, do you?’

His face appeared. He’d grown a beard since the last call – a patchy, scraggly excuse for a goatee. The bags under his eyes could’ve stashed groceries.

‘I do, but I … don’t. I’m sorry, Dad.’

He sniffed and looked off to the side. ‘What did I tell you, Belinda? You owe me twenty bucks.’

Mum entered the shot. She was wearing pyjamas and carrying a hot drink, probably one of her ‘zen’ teas.

‘Quit it, Malcolm! We did not bet!’ She turned to me. ‘There was no bet, Munro.’

‘I know it’s a joke, Mum.’

‘Honey, we’d love to see you.’

‘You’re seeing me now.’

‘We’d love to see you in person. I think a short visit would be great for all of us. We could meet the Hyde family and see some sights and, you know, just spend some time together … Munro?’

Tears pooled in Mum’s lower lids. Her twenty-four-hour delight over the Hydes’ invite had been crushed underfoot. Was I being cruel? Was I blowing the idea out of the water before giving it a chance to float? Ollie would have called me a joy-bomber.

‘People who’ve been through serious shit,’ she’d said, ‘can really struggle to accept nice things happening to them or around them. Instead of appreciation, they nuke it with anger or cynicism or disdain or just something negative. They joy-bomb it.’

I wasn’t joy-bombing my parents. Joy-slapping, yes; joy-punching, maybe. Definitely not joy-bombing. I leaned in closer to the propped iPad, but looked towards my suitcase, standing in the corner of the bedroom.

‘We just thought coming over would help dispel some of our fears,’ said Dad.

‘How many do you have?’

‘A tonne. Losing you. The future. Whether we’re doing the right thing. Whether the exchange will help you heal. Just to name a few. All of them are real to us.’ Dad tapped his forehead several times, perhaps trying to loosen up his memory. ‘The night you left, son, Mum and I went to a bar near the check-in area. It was about nine-thirty; the place closed at ten, so there was time for a drink or two. But we didn’t want to drink. We didn’t want to watch the game on the TVs. Didn’t even want to talk. We just sat there, gawking at the procession of late-night travellers, looking like we’d lost a fortune on a coin flip. Eventually, a waiter had to ask us to leave because they were closing up. I was reluctant to go. Mum had to lead me out by the elbow. I think there was something about the act of leaving – the actual passing through the doors of the terminal – that felt wrong to me, like an ending I couldn’t understand.

‘On the drive home, Mum asked if I regretted letting you go away. I pulled the car over to the shoulder and searched for an answer. It took a while. “Munro went away the day his sister died,” I said. “I don’t know how to bring him back.”’

Mum closed her eyes, let her head fall to the side.

‘We still don’t know how to bring you back, son,’ added Dad. ‘I guess we’re still trying. That’s why we jumped at the chance to visit. But just as it is with Evie, we have to understand that we can’t bring you back. I can’t, Mum can’t, your sister can’t, God up in Heaven can’t. Only you can bring Munro Maddux back. We need to understand that. But it seems we’re not there yet.’

The following day, Nina showed me an email Mum had sent:

Hi Nina

Thank you so much for your very kind invitation. Unfortunately, we will now have to pass. There are some things with our work at the Foundation that we have been unable to shift.

Thank you again for all you are doing to take care of our Munro.

Sincerely,
Belinda Maddux

Three fires doused amid three weeks of awesome. And now I’ve arrived at the first morning after the Easter long weekend, the first proper opportunity to tour the only place in Brisbane I really want to see. The failing grip of the Coyote is set to give out altogether.

I turn away from the Fair Go Welcome sign and motion for Caro to join me. ‘You ready to Living Partner like a boss?’

She smiles and adjusts her black wristbands. ‘Lead the way.’

‘Caro, this is Kelvin Yow. He’s the residential manager.’

‘Thank you for having me here.’

‘No worries. The residents who work with Munro are the ones you should thank. Normally, they would have a face-to-face before letting you loose, but they made an exception in your case. A thumbs-up from Mr Maddux here is good enough for them.’

‘I tried to warn them,’ I add. ‘I said you were a horrible person, really mean, not too bright, bad hygiene.’

Caro shrugs. ‘All true.’

‘They said they didn’t mind – working with me, they were used to it.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ says Kelvin. ‘So how about we get you two awful teenagers out and about?’

On the walk to the Creative Arts Precinct, Caro notices everything: the ramp accesses, the park benches, the hand-carved Wally Yow Way street sign. She also has a hundred questions for Kelvin: How long has Fair Go been around? How many residents? How many staff? What sort of activities do you do? What sort of support do you provide? In many cases, she already knows the answers, either from talking to me or from her own research.

By the time we reach the studio door (painted with the image of a mermaid on a swing), Kelvin has a solid opinion of Caro. He shares it with me quietly, behind a cupped hand. ‘She’s a keeper, Munro.’

Before leaving, he makes sure we’re set for the day with a basic map, schedules, phone numbers. He looks at our shoes.

‘Ah, good, you’ve got your runners on. The residents have planned a little something for you this afternoon.’

‘It’s not another field trip, is it?’ I ask. ‘I mean, the touring is great, but that’s all we’ve been doing. I really want to stick around home here.’

‘You’re staying here, mate, but it is touring … for the residents. They’re looking to get a little taste of your homeland.’ Kelvin smiles, brings an index finger to his lips. ‘I’ll say no more. Enjoy yourselves and I’ll catch you this arvo at The Shed.’

After Kelvin departs, Caro bumps me with a little hip-check.

‘What was that for?’ I ask.

‘You called this place home – that’s really sweet.’

In the Creative Arts Precinct, every part of the scene brings a smile to my face – the colours, the materials, the humming machines, the buzzing voices. The people. Smiling, laughing. Working together. Singing along to the tune tumbling out of the Bose speaker – ‘Dangerous Woman’ by Ariana Grande. A girl sits in a wheelchair made to look like an ice-cream truck. A young guy wearing an eyepatch darts about taking photos of finished pieces on display. ‘Etsy will love this!’ he announces after each snap, as if Etsy is a favourite aunt. A girl, seated in a La-Z-Boy off to the side, looks like she’s opting out of the action. A closer look shows she’s putting together a bracelet that has ‘LUKE’ spelled out in beads. The place is a beauty. A sign on one of the walls has a message in an ornate font: Art is education, art is vocation, art is therapy … Art is LIFE!

‘How great is this?’ says Caro, examining the school of glass tropical fish hanging from the ceiling.

‘It’s something else,’ I reply.

Bernie appears from a small nook near the screen-printing area and scurries over. She’s blinking at regular speed, but the rest of her is pumped. Hands flicking, mouth twitching. Her cheeks are redder than cherry Kool Aid.

‘Munro, I’m so glad you’re here!’

‘Bernie, I’d like to introduce you to someone.’

‘I’ve figured it out!’

‘This is Caro.’

‘The word for my clothing line!’

‘She’s my friend.’

‘After all this time, I’ve finally got it!’

Caro holds out her hand, but it’s left hanging.

I click my fingers. ‘Caro’s saying hi.’

For a few seconds, Bernie is thrown; she tucks her elbows into her hips and hunches forward, trying to gather my words in her chest. Then she turns and stares at the hand suspended in midair.

‘Lovely to meet you, Bernie. Munro has told me heaps about you.’

Bernie makes a fist and pushes it into her chin. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she says, staring at Caro’s sneakers. ‘I was a bit excited and forgot my social skills. Munro and I have been working on this for a while.’

‘It’s been all you, Bern.’ I lean to the side. ‘In your back pocket – is that one of your new shirts?’

Bernie snaps her head up and stands tall. The hunch in her back (I’ve learned that it’s called a ‘kyphosis’) shrinks and flattens. She plucks the tee from her pocket and lays it across her extended forearms.

‘“Freetard”? That’s the word you came up with?’

She nods enthusiastically. ‘It’s someone who doesn’t use the R-word. And “Freetard” changes the bad word to something good. I’ve done shirts in my three favourite fonts: Forte, Impact and Helvetica. This is the Forte one.’

‘It’s eye-catching,’ I say. ‘Do you think it could be taken the wrong way, though?’

‘How?’

‘Well, people might see “Freetard” as a different sort of insult.’

Bernie gives a big belly laugh. ‘No way, Jose! It changes the bad word to something good. Duh!’

‘I think it’s great,’ says Caro. ‘Where can I buy one?’

‘You can have this one. I’ll give you a cap, too, when we start making them.’ Bernie looks me up and down. ‘I think you should have an Impact shirt, Munro.’

‘Okay, sure.’ I hitch a thumb over my shoulder towards the bustling studio. ‘How can we help out this inefficient, poorly run, hater operation?’

Bernie baulks, then pulls a face. ‘You’re joking, ha!’ She plunges her hands in her pockets and looks around. ‘Hmm … Everyone understands the equipment and the rules and what to do. The Fair Go Working Partners have more responsibility for things “backstage”, such as buying materials and getting donations. If we get something new in the studio – like our new kiln over there – they teach us how to use it. I s’pose you could help me with screen-printing?’

Under the careful watch of Bernadette Polk, Caro and I spend the rest of our scheduled hour making Freetard T-shirts. Like everyone else in the studio, we laugh and sing and display our work for the Etsy photographer. When our shift comes to an end, it hurts a little to leave.

Good thing First-aid is next.

We arrive to find Iggy looking at letters he’s scribbled on his hand.

‘D-R-S-A-B-C,’ he says. ‘You know what that means.’

I nod. ‘Danger, Response, Send for help, Airway, Breathing, Circulation.’

‘You and I both hope you’ll never need CPR, Munro. But if you do, and I’m here, I’ll do it and I’ll do it well. You’re in good hands. I’ll even shake on it.’

‘You stealing my speeches now, Ig?’ I say, laughing and accepting his offered elbow.

At the front of the class, the instructor is talking quietly to himself, prepping for the session. I recognise him from the day of my interview.

‘The guy up front running the show – is his name Percy?’

Iggy shakes his head. ‘Perry. Perry Richter. He’s good. Very smart.’

‘He’s not a resident, is he?’

‘No. He just comes here to teach.’

‘First-aid and car-washing, yeah?’

‘And nuclear physics.’

‘Did you just make a joke?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not bad.’

Iggy smiles and resumes the study of his palm. This is the best I’ve seen him. No coughs or throat-clearing, no cool washcloths or warm blankets, no sickly voice. No darting looks for suspicious strangers. There’s a bit of sunburn on his nose. I’m not surprised. First thing he said to me today was ‘My comic! I’m three-quarters done!’ The way he’s going, he’ll be doing cartwheels and one-arm push-ups at the finish.

‘So, does Perry teach the group on his own?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘No Working Partner?’

Iggy points out a bald, bearded guy with a tattoo sleeve, counting bandages off to the side of the room. ‘Baz is always here. He helps with putting stuff out and cleaning up, and he’s a really good victim for practising. But he doesn’t teach.’

‘Perry’s got a certificate or something?’

‘Yeah, he shows it to us at the beginning of each class.’

‘He sounds perfect for the job,’ says Caro.

Iggy nods. ‘He has real-life experience, too. He saved his sister by giving her cardiopulmonary resuscitation. It must be true ’cause he kept saying “No lie!” all the time.’

Iggy tells the story of the rescue. Earthquakes, car stunts, a mad dash to the hospital – it sounds more like a movie than something that actually happened. I don’t feel great as I listen in – my heart’s jumped up a level and my stomach is a bit watery – but I don’t feel ambushed. I know where I am. I know who I am.

Caro tugs my shirtsleeve. ‘You with us, Munro? You okay?’

I scan the room. Residents take up their positions, and Perry Richter calls for attention. ‘Hello, everyone. As my father used to say, “What do we want? No more delays! When do we want it? As soon as possible!” That’s a good joke.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, patting Caro’s hand. ‘Let’s get hurt.’

Arms are broken. Legs are stabbed. Systems go into shock. People turn into mummies, bandaged in head dressings and figure-eight wraps and collar-and-cuff slings. Perry is as good as advertised, clear in his steps and in his demos on Baz the victim. He sees everything that’s happening in the room, even when he’s looking to the side or at his fingernails. He talks about Jackie Chan, injuries he suffered, films on which they occurred. At the end of the session, he approaches us, holding a batch of DRSABC pocket cards and a small green dome.

‘Hello, my name is Perry Richter,’ he says, fanning the cards so we can each grab one. ‘Thank you for coming today – and you too, Iggy, even though you are here all the time.’

‘I’m Caro. It was an awesome class, Perry. Everyone was totally into it.’

‘Thank you, Caro.’

‘Yeah, you rocked it,’ I say. ‘By the way, I’m –’

‘Munro Maddux, the young person from the excellent city of Vancouver, home of the Qube building and Stanley Park and the PNE.’ Perry dips his head to one side and flutters his half-closed eyes. ‘You are here on a student exchange.’

‘That’s right. How did you know?’

‘Kelvin Yow told me about you and said you would be here today.’ He flicks his fingers. ‘I would like to talk to you alone, please.’

‘Alone?’

He turns to Caro and fixes his gaze on the Rip Curl badge on her cap. ‘I’m sorry, Caro, it is not great manners to take Munro away to talk.’

‘Go for it.’

‘Thank you.’

Perry moves to the front of the room, where a CPR manikin is laid out on a table, awaiting pick-up from Baz. I shrug and make my way over. We end up on either side of the manikin, which is named Annie, according to the nearby storage bag.

‘Were you comfortable in my class today, Munro?’ asks Perry.

I glance at Caro and Iggy. They’re watching something on Caro’s phone and laughing. ‘I felt very comfortable, Perry.’

‘No lie?’

‘Um, no. No lie. It was great to be a part of this session.’

Perry squints. ‘Excellent! Kelvin told me that you might not be comfortable in the class this morning. He did not say why.’ He puts the small green dome on the table beside Annie and gives it a pat. ‘I didn’t feel anything in my seismometer here, in the lead-up or during the class.’

‘That’s … good.’ I stare at Annie’s lifeless face. ‘Iggy told me about your sister. It’s awesome that you saved her life.’

Perry makes a pop sound with his mouth. ‘It is. I couldn’t save my parents, though. My father died from pancreatic cancer two weeks before my twin sister and I turned eighteen. My mother died of lung cancer last spring. Now it’s just me and Justine and her husband, Marc, and their baby, Daniel Leon Richter. He’s my nephew. No lie, it would be very good if my parents were still alive, but they’re not, so I try to make things very good without them.’

‘I imagine that’s hard to do.’

‘It is hard to do, but that is today, that is the future.’ Perry scrunches his eyes and sucks in a big breath. He lays a hand on the seismothingy. ‘You are positive you felt comfortable in my class this morning?’

‘One hundred and ten per cent.’

Perry scoffs. ‘That’s not possible!’

He says goodbye, waves to Caro and Iggy, then exits. I wander back to the pair.

‘Good chat?’ asks Caro.

I nod. ‘It was. No lie.’

After a quick lunch in the cafeteria, Caro and I crash the Personal Safety talk at the Rec Refuge. A Working Partner named Darrell is in charge. His subject for today is online dangers, specifically ransomware. As he outlines the best course of action – Whatever you do, do not pay anything to these people! – Caro notices a second instructor readying for her bit.

‘Is that Florence?’

‘Yep.’

‘There’s not much to her.’

I nod. ‘She’s real strong, though.’

Caro rubs her hands together like an evil mastermind. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this. What’s that move you said she was showing the others at Bribie?’

‘The Blue-ringed Octopus Bite. I think Iggy’s still recovering.’

Darrell passes on his final bit of ransomware advice: ‘Whatever you do, do not pay anything to these people!’ then motions for Florence to join him at the front. ‘Okay. To finish up, folks, as per usual we have our resident ninja goddess, Florence, here to teach you her self-defence move of the week.’

‘You weren’t kidding about her teeth,’ says Caro.

‘She refuses to get them fixed,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know why.’

Caro presses on her thigh, close to the site of her scar, as Florence begins.

‘The Flo-jitsu move I wanna show youse today is called the Kookaburra Laugh. It sounds like it’s funny, but it isn’t, ’specially for the person getting it.’ She grins and a squirrel’s squeak leaks out of her mouth. ‘I’m going to need a volunteer. A bad guy.’ She scans the room and lands on me. ‘Come here, Munro.’

All eyes laser-point my way. Caro nudges me forward.

‘Um, okaaay.’ I shuffle to the front. Settling in beside Florence, I whisper, ‘You sure you don’t want to thumb-wrestle instead?’

She ignores me and addresses the class. ‘So, the Kookaburra Laugh is really good if you wanna get someone under control pretty quick. But you gotta be up close, within reach.’

Without warning, her Swiss cheese grin vanishes, replaced by the stony stare I’ve encountered on a regular basis. She spins me around and clamps onto my neck.

‘The reason I call this the Kookaburra Laugh is ’cause it makes the bad guy giggle and cry at the same time.’

The grip tightens and it’s like I’m being tickled with a pair of pliers. My eyes water. Giggles dribble from my lips. My knees start to give. I try to squirm away but Florence just tightens her hold.

‘You hear that? And can you see where I’ve got him?’ She turns me with ease, deftly avoiding my flailing arms. ‘Make sure you get it right where the neck and the shoulder muscles join together.’

I’m going wobbly in the legs. It’s like I just came out of the water at Centennial Beach on New Year’s Day.

‘Now, if your sensei kept goin’, I could put Munro down on his knees, maybe even on the ground. Would you like to see that?’

There’s a ‘yes’ or two from the class. I want to shout ‘NO!’ but my throat is thinner than a drinking straw.

‘I said, “Would you like to see that?”’

A better response this time. They’re going to be disappointed when I pass out.

‘Well, as much as I would love to do it,’ says Florence, ‘I think this bad guy has had enough.’

She releases me. I stagger away, moaning with relief. The class gives a round of applause. As they file out, Darrell reminds everyone not to practise on each other. I collapse into a nearby chair.

‘Flo, don’t I … get to try … on you?’ I ask.

She cracks her knuckles. ‘Never.’

Caro joins us. The two share intros and a few thoughts on self-defence. Caro lifts her shorts to reveal the scar on her leg. ‘I could’ve done with a few of your moves when this happened,’ she says.

‘But you got him, yeah?’ asks Florence.

‘How did you know it was a him?’

‘It’s always a him. And you got him, yeah?’

Caro’s face goes rock-hard for a second. ‘Yeah, I got him.’

Florence grins. ‘Fuck yeah.’ She checks the time. ‘I gotta go. I wanna help Iggy stack shelves at the shop. But we can talk more this afternoon at The Shed.’ She looks at me and sighs. ‘I s’pose you’ll be there too, bad guy.’

‘You’re not doing another demo on me, are you?’

‘If you didn’t treat Ig so good, I would.’

Florence departs. Caro lays her hands on my neck and begins massaging the site of the Kookaburra Laugh.

‘You make a much better good guy,’ she says.

‘Oh. My. GOD!’

Blake screams and hugs Caro. Then she hugs her again.

‘Soooo pretty!’ she says, punching me in the arm. ‘Just as well you’re good-looking, too, Munro! Otherwise, she would want a better boyfriend!’

‘We’re not together, Blake.’

‘What?’

‘Caro isn’t my girlfriend. We’re not together. Yet.’ Blake looks at Caro. She shrugs and nods. Blake looks at me like a disappointed coach. Before she can follow up with a comment, I redirect.

‘Blake, why are you in this hut?’

‘It’s a gazebo.’

‘Okay, gazebo. Aren’t you supposed to be doing Agriculture this shift? Looks like a good time out there.’

A girl whistles as she stacks mangoes into a wheel-barrow. A guy in a scruffy straw hat is down on his knees, talking softly to a bed of tomato plants: ‘Keep growing, babies … You’re going well, babies …’ A Working Partner is high-fiving a resident as the two of them bring a tractor back to the small barn.

‘Agriculture Precinct is not my favourite. I hate getting dirty,’ says Blake. ‘So I do extra in the Digital Media Centre.’

‘Are you working on something now?’ asks Caro, nodding towards Blake’s open laptop.

‘This is something for me and Dale. Our wedding invitation.’

‘Oh, wow.’

Blake spins the laptop around and pushes it across the table. ‘Could you look at it for me? My spelling is really bad.’

Caro starts reading. I put a hand up to shield my eyes from the sunrays sneaking through the gaps in the gazebo. ‘Is Dale here? Does he hate getting dirty, too?’

Blake busts out one of her giant laughs. ‘No chance! Agriculture Precinct is totally his favourite! He stinks like hell when he’s finished a shift.’

‘What about Shah? He’s scheduled to be here too, yeah?’

‘I haven’t seen him today. I think he chucked a sickie.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Caro raises a thumb. ‘This is great, Blake. I love the border of roses. Only two spelling mistakes that I could see: “occasion” has just the one “s” and “celebration” has a second “e” instead of an “a”.’

Blake punches me in the arm again. ‘Pretty and smart.’

‘Oh, and you didn’t put in a date.’

Blake flicks her hair. ‘That’s right.’

‘You haven’t decided on a date yet?’

‘No, there isn’t one.’ She tells Caro about how her dad won’t allow her and Dale to get married. Caro fidgets and frowns. She’s about to launch into a response when Dale rocks up to the gazebo, all grime and sweat and a grin to put The Joker to shame. Blake stiff-arms his cheeky attempt at a hug and lifts his iPad from her bulging handbag.

He taps the screen and bows in Caro’s direction. ‘Hey, I’m Dale.’

‘I’m Caro.’

More taps. ‘Would you like a tour of the Agriculture Precinct?’

‘We’re here to help, Dale,’ I say. ‘We did enough touring during the school term, eh?’

He makes a sound, a cross between a cough and a meh. ‘We’ve done the tasks for today: watering, spraying, bringing stuff to the kitchens. Tomorrow, there is more to do.’

I clap my hands, hoping it hides my disappointment. ‘I guess a bit more touring wouldn’t hurt.’

Dale fist-bumps Caro and me, blows a kiss to Blake, then leads the way. He takes us through the greenhouse and the barn and the vegetable patches. He gives us the lowdown on Fair Go’s produce, with a special mention to basil. ‘It goes good in hot, dry weather. Too good. We have so much bloody pesto to sell!’

Dale then escorts us a short distance along the fence line that separates the property from ‘the bush’. He says the neighbouring forest reserve is the biggest in Brisbane and is mostly made up of eucalyptus trees. It’s home to more than a hundred different types of wildlife, including wallabies, koalas, echidnas and powerful owls. As I digest Dale’s info, it occurs to me that I’ve never felt bad that he couldn’t speak. A chunk of me feels it today, though. The voice program’s burry monotone and occasional half-assed pronunciations don’t come close to conveying the passion in his gestures and facial expressions.

We head back, passing by the herb gardens and a big mango tree that has an abandoned bathtub beside it. On the path to the gazebo, Dale picks an orange flower from one of the garden beds. He hands it to Blake on bended knee.

‘This smells better than you,’ she says.

Dale rolls his eyes, then waves at Caro and me. ‘I’ll see you soon, after I’ve had a shower.’

We leave the Agriculture Precinct. Before we’re out of range, we hear Blake’s final, shouted command. ‘You should make her your girlfriend, Munro! Then take her back to Canada, Munro!’

Around three, we roll up to The Shed, Fair Go’s indoor basketball court. Kelvin is there. My team as well, minus Shah.

‘So, what’s the big secret, guys?’ I ask. ‘You got a Zamboni here or something?’

‘What’s a Zamboni?’ asks Bernie. ‘Is that a type of pasta?’

‘I think it’s one of Infecto’s archenemies,’ suggests Iggy.

‘Good guesses. It’s actually kind of like a lawnmower that makes the ice nice and smooth on a rink,’ says Kelvin, creating more confusion. ‘No, Munro, we couldn’t get you a Zamboni. But we don’t need one for floor hockey, do we?’

Dale emerges from a storage locker with two large equipment bags. He follows it up by dragging out a full six-by-four net and setting it up on the nearest baseline.

‘The blue bag next to Florence’s feet – that’s probably the one you want to check out,’ says Kelvin.

I walk over, kneel down beside the stacked Bauer bag, pull back the zip. ‘You bought goalie gear?’

‘We did, yeah.’

‘For me.’

‘Technically, it’s for the residents, but who else has a clue what to do with it?’

I take out the pieces and lay them in a semicircle around me, just as I would on game day.

Caro kneels beside me. ‘What’s that thing?’ she asks, pointing.

‘That’s a blocker. Goes on this hand.’

She nods. ‘Your right? Makes sense.’

The final item in the bag is the helmet. I hold it up and out, like I’m Hamlet with his skull. It’s literally a work of art. The lump in my throat gets bigger, heavier. ‘Who painted this?’

‘We all did,’ says Blake. ‘I painted the heart inside the maple leaf. Ig did the Brisbane Wheel. Bernie wrote “Freetard”, of course. Flo did the weird three-leg sign –’

‘I wanted to do a middle finger,’ she explains, ‘but Iggy said I shouldn’t. So, I did this – a mittsue-tomoe. It’s a symbol samurai families used in Japan.’

‘Whatever,’ Blake says. ‘Dale did the wattle tree. And Kelvin painted the zombie wombat.’

‘It’s a squirrel, Blake,’ corrects Kelvin.

‘A zombie squirrel.’

My fingers brush over the glossy surface, absorbing the artwork. They stop on a small pic under the right earhole. A black pawn. ‘I wonder who did this one?’

‘Me.’

Shah ambles in from the entrance. He’s wearing a Lionel Messi Barcelona shirt that’s one, maybe two sizes too big for him. There are a couple of extra lines on his face. My guess is they’re from the cushions on his couch.

‘I am tired of beating you in checkers,’ he says.

‘You’re tired of beating me? I don’t think so. I think you’re tired of getting beat.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah!’

‘You think?’

‘I think!’

We eyeball each other for a second, all puffed chests and fake sneers. Then we crack up, me laughing, Shah twitching his lips. The truth is, over the past month, we’ve both been winning. Little by little, Shah’s been using more chess moves, usually without warning, occasionally with a half-smile. If only YOLO could be there with a camera. They could call the video Check Mates for Life.

Kelvin unzips the second Bauer bag and starts passing sticks around. ‘So, I think we’ve done enough dillydallying. Time to get this show on the road.’ He picks up a ball and rolls his arm over, à la cricket bowling. ‘We could use your help, Munro.’

I stand and scan the group. These faces. Looking at me. Looking to me.

I don’t feel so much like a Living Partner right now. I feel like something more, something close to family. A brother, maybe.

A big brother.

We did basic stick handling stuff, Evie, like when I was in Grade 7 and we did floor hockey with your class – ‘Keep Away’ and ‘Red Light, Green Light’. Then a couple of passing drills – one in pairs going up and down the floor, and ‘Around the House’. You remember that? Everyone gets in a circle and does random passes? So fun! Then we did a shootout to finish. I dressed in the goalie gear and faced some fire from the team. Except for Kelvin, I made sure everyone scored a goal – even Shah, who didn’t want a stick. He kicked the ball instead.

I wish you’d been there to see it.

‘Are you talking to me, Munro Maddux?’

Caro’s brief doze is over. Her head, though, still rests against the train window.

‘No. Just myself.’

‘Where are we?’

I look out the window, squinting into the setting sun. Stretches of golf course glide by. A group of men in plaid shorts hack at the long grass beside the tracks while a pair of crows keeps watch over their cart. ‘About ten minutes to Wattle Heights.’

‘I’ll go back to my nap, then.’

‘More sleep? I’m going to start calling you Shah.’

‘Been a big day.’

‘Been a great day.’

Caro rubs her nose, pulls her hat down lower. ‘Hey, what did Perry want to talk to you about?’

‘Nothing much.’ I plant an elbow on the window frame and rest my head on my open hand. ‘He wanted to make sure I didn’t feel uncomfortable in the class.’

Caro shifts. I see her puzzled reflection in the window. ‘Was there a reason for you to feel uncomfortable?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘You sure?’

‘Totally.’

‘I remember you spaced out a bit at the start.’

‘That was just your bad hygiene. Look, let’s change the subject, eh?’

She nods slowly. ‘Okaaaay. How about Blake with that wedding invitation? I’d love to give her father a gobful.’

‘That’s your change of subject?’

‘Sorry, it’s the future lawyer in me. If someone’s copping a bad deal, I want to defend them, I want to make things better for them. It’s what I do.’

‘What you do, Caro, is sleep on the train. So, how about you do some more of it? I’ll wake you up when we’re getting close.’

To my surprise, she taps out. She brings her legs up onto the seat, leans against the window and crashes before the next station, her whistly nose-breathing a dead giveaway she’s out. I close my eyes. The wires thrum above my head. The wheels gallop under my feet.

Make things better.

For them.

From day one, the student exchange was about regaining myself and getting rid of the Coyote. Now that I’m within reach of that goal, I can look beyond it. Who do I want to be? What do I want to do?

I have an idea. A big idea. One that means I won’t just be leaving the past here.

Mum and Dad

Hey, what would you think of the Foundation setting up an assisted-living residence like Fair Go back home? Would it be possible? Would you be interested? I know it would involve a tonne of cash and time and God knows what else, but I think it would be awesome.

Just a thought for the future.

Talk soon.

M