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Nick’s uppercut sent Brandon reeling. A left hook followed. He readied his arm to jab again but two of Brandon’s mates sprang at him. They dragged Nick away, split his lip, tore his shirt, threw him to the ground, kicked his ribs. They would have done more if a swarm of teachers hadn’t erupted from the staffroom.
Thirty minutes later, Nick lingered outside the principal’s office. He’d long suspected that the polished bronze plaque on the door was deliberately glued just above eye level so that everyone had to look up in order to read the engraving: Mrs Laura Cavendish, Principal. Nick had seen this sign for the first time in Year Seven. He’d been shorter then, and more than a little daunted by the prospect of facing the school’s figurehead, but now he was used to the visits.
Nick slapped the dirt off his shorts. When he licked his lips, he tasted blood. That was good. If he looked wounded, Mrs Cavendish might be more sympathetic.
He knocked, waited for the call of ‘Enter!’, and opened the door. Air conditioning breathed over him like a sigh from the Antarctic.
‘Nicholas Williams. Why am I not surprised?’
He sat in one of the shabby chairs facing her desk and propped his elbows on the armrests. Mrs Cavendish studied him as if trying to determine where the streaks of dirt ended and his brown skin began. He realised then that his knuckles were grazed, and he tucked his hands under his armpits.
‘Jewellery is not allowed at this school. Take it off.’
He glanced down. The top two buttons of his shirt had been ripped off and his necklace was showing. He picked at the leather knot till it loosened, then slipped the necklace into his pocket. When Mrs Cavendish frowned at the black tattoo on his chest, he folded the tattered remains of his collar together to cover the mark. No amount of blood, it would seem, was going to soothe her temper today.
‘You promised me last December, Nick, that this reckless behaviour was not going to continue into Year Ten. Do you remember our conversation?’
Nick sighed. Mía was going to be so angry.
‘Well? Do you?’ Mrs Cavendish asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Remind me what you said.’
‘I said I’d think before I act.’
‘And?’
‘And I’d follow teachers’ instructions.’
‘And?’
‘And I’d stay away from Brandon.’
‘So what went wrong?’
Nick remembered how Brandon had shot him a vicious smile and said, ‘I heard it’s your birthday today, Nick. Why don’t you get yourself a decent school uniform? I’m sure the op shop’d have a dress your size.’
Nick slammed his locker shut.
‘Whoa,’ Brandon said, backing up. ‘Hit a nerve there, did I? Just trying to help. I mean, let’s face it. You and your crazy aunt need all the charity you can get, since she can’t even afford to buy you proper clothes. What’d she give you this year? Another homemade tattoo?’
Mrs Cavendish cleared her throat, cutting into Nick’s thoughts. She tapped a long polished fingernail on the piece of paper that lay in front of her, her rings clinking. A gold mine hung off those arthritic fingers.
‘It says here on the incident report that you and Brandon spoke to one another, and that you hit him first. Did he provoke you?’
Nick knew from experience that the longer he was silent, the worse the punishment, so he replied, ‘He asked me what I got for my birthday.’
‘It’s your birthday today?’
‘Yes. Sixteen.’
‘Well, then. Happy birthday.’ She didn’t sound at all glad for him. ‘What else did Brandon say?’
‘Just the usual.’
‘Remind me.’
‘Does it even matter?’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘Fine. He called my aunt crazy.’
‘And that’s why you retaliated?’
Nick wondered if it was a rhetorical question.
‘Answer me, please,’ she pressed.
‘Of course that’s why I retaliated! Geez!’
‘Don’t use that tone with me, young man.’ Mrs Cavendish propped her glasses on the tip of her nose and scribbled something onto the incident report. ‘You lost control, Nick, and Brandon needs stitches as a result. For that, I’m suspending you for five days.’
Nick ran his hands over his dreadlocks. Five days. The longest he’d ever got before this was three. Mía was going to bury him alive.
Mrs Cavendish opened a folder and dragged her index finger down a list of names and phone numbers.
‘Miss, you’re not going to call Mía right now, are you?’
‘Of course I am. I have to inform her of your suspension.’
‘But she doesn’t speak much English. Can’t I just tell her?’
Mrs Cavendish peered at him over the pink rim of her glasses. ‘Her English is perfectly fine. In fact, you can tell her now, if you like. In this office.’
‘No, I meant that I could—’
‘I know what you meant, Nick. That you could tell her when you got home. The last time I trusted you to tell her something important, you conveniently forgot. Remember the meeting we scheduled last September to discuss your behaviour?’
Nick grunted. Mía had been so furious she’d barely spoken to him for a week. She’d actually walked the five kilometres to school and asked Mrs Cavendish in person to give him extra detentions. Then she’d added some of her own for him at home. He’d learnt a great deal about house cleaning that month. He’d also learnt never to lie to Mía again.
‘Your aunt deserves better than to be treated in that appalling manner.’ Mrs Cavendish offered him the receiver. ‘Do you want to tell her, or shall I?’
‘You can.’ Nick held his head in his hands and listened to Mrs Cavendish dial his phone number.
‘Hello, Mía. This is Laura Cavendish, principal of Buckadgery Creek High School. How are you?’ She spoke loudly and clearly, as if she was talking to a deaf person. ‘I’m well, thanks. Listen, I’ve got Nick in my office. He got into a fight at lunchtime and hurt another student.’
Nick imagined Mía’s smouldering eyes gouging a hole in the floorboards as she received this news. He clenched his dreadlocks between his fingers.
‘Nick’s a little bruised. The school nurse has had a look at him and she says he’s fine. The other student, however, needs several stitches.’ Mrs Cavendish took her glasses off and rested them on the table. ‘Yes, this is a serious incident. Nick will be suspended for five days.’
‘The suspension will begin tomorrow. So including the weekend that means Nick won’t be able to return to school until next Wednesday.’ Her gaze flashed to Nick. ‘Of course. I’ll hand you over.’ She held out the receiver.
Drawing a deep breath, Nick put the phone to his ear and said in his own language, ‘Hello?’
‘Nicholas Kári.’
He gulped. Mía only ever used his second name when he was in serious trouble. He turned away from Mrs Cavendish. He knew she couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he didn’t want her to see his face.
‘Are you alright?’ Mía asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not hurt?’
‘Not much.’
‘What happened? What did you say to that boy?’
‘Nothing. I...I just punched him.’
‘You punched him? Why?’
Nick jiggled his foot, not wanting to answer.
‘Why, Nick? Tell me.’
He didn’t want to translate ‘crazy’ into Korelian.
‘Brandon insulted you, Mía. I know you said it doesn’t matter and I should ignore him but I can’t just let him say stuff like that. It’s not right.’
‘Nick, you promised me you’d learned how to walk away from those situations.’
‘I know I did. It’s just...I forgot. I’m sorry, Mía. I really am.’
He felt sick with dread, and he yearned to hear her say that it was alright, that she understood. Instead, he heard her release her breath like a deflating tyre.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Nick. We’ll discuss this more when you get home. I want to speak to your principal again.’
He handed the phone back to Mrs Cavendish then slumped in the chair and stared out the window. As much as he was dying to get out of this office, he was not looking forward to riding home in the heat, especially when he had to face Mía at the end of his journey.
Mrs Cavendish hung up the phone. ‘Okay, Nick. Make sure you take all your homework with you. I don’t want you falling behind so early in the year.’
He picked at a bit of dead skin on his knuckles.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Off you go, then.’
As he opened the door, Mrs Cavendish said, ‘Nick?’
He turned.
‘If you’re not careful, this behaviour is going to earn you a lot more than a suspension one day. I’d like to think you’re better than that.’
He left without replying. As he trudged past the front office, he saw the school secretary bent over the photocopier, swearing at it. Her backside wobbled under her mustard yellow dress like a water bomb. Nick chuckled.
‘Did I just hear you volunteer for bin duty?’ she spat, eyeballing him from beneath a sweaty armpit.
‘Shit, no!’ he gasped, scooting away.
He transferred his textbooks and sports uniform from his locker to his school bag and grabbed his bike from the rack outside.
A freckled boy beckoned from an open window. ‘Psst! Williams!’
‘Hey, Paulsen,’ Nick said, leaning against the wall so he was hidden from the teacher.
‘You skipping school again, bludger?’
‘Nah. Got suspended.’
‘Crap. How long for?’
‘Five days.’
‘That’s rough. What’d Brandon get?’
Nick shrugged. ‘You mean apart from stitches?’
Paulsen sniggered then whipped around when the teacher barked his name. ‘Sorry, miss. Just getting some fresh air. I’ve got a headache.’ He turned back and winked. ‘Have a nice holiday, Williams, you lucky bastard.’
Nick grinned, but as he turned out the school gate, dread gripped his chest.