Steven Herrick was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven children. At school his favourite subject was soccer, and he dreamed of football glory while he worked at various jobs. For the past twenty-five years he’s been a full-time writer and regularly performs his work in schools throughout the world. Steven lives in the Blue Mountains with his partner Cathie, a belly dance teacher. They have two adult sons, Jack and Joe.
www.stevenherrick.com.au
Also by Steven Herrick
Young Adult
Slice
Black painted fingernails
Water bombs
Love, ghosts and nose hair
A place like this
The simple gift
By the river
Lonesome howl
Cold skin
Children
Untangling spaghetti
The place where the planes take off
My life, my love, my lasagne
Poetry to the rescue
Love poems and leg-spinners
Tom Jones saves the world
Do-wrong Ron
Naked bunyip dancing
Rhyming boy
In the past twenty-five years, I’ve visited over three thousand schools to read my work and talk to the students and teachers. So, finally, I’d like to dedicate a book to all the people who’ve welcomed me into their school lives.
To the students: may all your days be sunny.
To the teachers: may all your students be smiling.
To the librarians: may all your books be borrowed.
RACHEL
My town
is exactly
four hundred and twenty-two kilometres
from the ocean.
I check the distance
driving home from holidays
with Mum and Dad
the day before school begins
and while Bondi Beach
gets frothy waves
of cool, salty water on white sand
my town suffers
waves of dust storms
and locust plagues
and heat that melts the bitumen
and the first thing I do
when we get home
after driving all day
is run down to the dam
in the near paddock
and dive in.
The water is warm and brown.
My toes squelch in the mud
while the windmill clanks.
A pond-skater buzzes the surface
and starlings fantail
across the sky
the day before school begins.
LAURA
My new teacher
wears a flowing summer dress
with red pianos printed
on white linen.
Her hair is crow-black and messy
and she pulls it back
from her face
and ties it with a red ribbon.
She wears black ballet shoes
and casually sits on her desk
before asking us
to tell her something, one thing,
that we like about ourselves.
Selina, Mick, Cameron, Pete and Rachel
immediately
raise their hands
while I slink as low as possible
behind my desk.
SELINA
Ms Arthur said we should
bring in a photo of ourselves,
our favourite,
to paste on the Class 6A wall
and we could draw a design
around the photo
with our name, in bright colours.
And underneath our photo
we could write,
once a week,
what we’ve done lately
or what made us happy, or sad.
‘Just like Facebook,’ I said.
On Tuesday we spent all morning
drawing our names in big letters
with swirling colours
of red, yellow, green and blue.
Except Cameron
who wrote his name in tiny letters.
His writing was so small
you had to go really close
just to see if it was there at all.
And he’d chosen a thumbnail photo
of when he was a baby
lying in a cot asleep.
Cameron spent the whole morning
admiring his little photo and his teeny name
surrounded by glaring white cardboard.
Sometimes he stepped back
and looked at the photo from different angles,
like an artist.
Then he’d move close and adjust it,
just slightly.
Finally Ms Arthur couldn’t stand it any longer.
She asked Cameron
if he planned to add anything
to his cardboard.
Cameron looked shocked
and said, in his usual loud voice,
‘No way, Ms.
I want to have lots of space
to write about everything I think!’
MICK
I’m staring out the window
minding no one’s business but my own
because Ms Arthur is teaching maths
and that’s not really my go.
What do we have calculators for?
Charlie Deakin from 5C comes in with a note
and Ms Arthur tells me the Principal
‘requires my presence in his office’.
So I follow Charlie along the verandah
and he’s smirking the whole time
because no one gets called out of class
for good news,
it’s always trouble,
but I don’t say anything
and I don’t act nervous
because I haven’t done anything wrong,
not lately anyway.
Well, not that Mr Hume knows
and I trust my classmates not to tell anyway.
Charlie Deakin is still grinning
like he’s won a prize,
yeah, first-prize boofhead.
He knocks on the Principal’s door
and says to me,
‘Hume’s madder than a nest of bull ants.’
Charlie Deakin opens the door
and walks away down the hallway
leaving me standing there
with Mr Hume looking at me
and he’s not smiling.
ALEX
I thought it was a simple question, really.
Ms Arthur asked each of us to stand up, in turn,
and say what we want to be
when we grow up.
The first five students said,
‘Farmer.’
Then Rachel said,
‘Pilot.’
And we went slowly around the class,
‘Teacher.’
‘Doctor.’
‘Truck driver.’
‘Vet.’
‘Soldier.’
When it was my turn,
I stood up
and, in a very clear voice
, said,
‘A dad.’
A few people giggled
as if I’d said something rude,
or stupid.
I sat down again,
red-faced and confused.
It was the truth.
I wanted to be a dad.
I’ve never seen my dad
and I wouldn’t wish that
on anyone.
Rachel stood up, again,
and said,
‘Ms Arthur, I want to be a pilot
and a mum!’
MICK
‘Yeah, he’s my brother
and I’m supposed to look after him
but it was lunchtime, Mr Hume,
and the canteen has a special –
two dollars for a hot dog and drink.
You should try it, sir.
Mrs Casey says it’s a low-fat dog,
if you’re worried.
Not that you need to be worried, sir.
Not at all.
Back to my brother,
well, he’s been talking all week
about wanting to fly, sir.
I thought he meant in a plane.
You know, like normal people.
You’ve got to admit it was pretty impressive
climbing on the roof of the groundsman’s shed.
Maybe planting wattles that close
even if they bloom yellow all summer.
I don’t think he meant to jump, sir.
He was probably just checking the wind speed.
No, sir. I did not give him
the feathers, the sticks or the glue.
He’ll be in big trouble with Mum
when she discovers the spare doona is empty.
Yes, it’s true, last year
I told all the boys in Kindy
they had to wear a dress in honour
of Darcy Dress, the famous inventor.
I got a week’s detention,
and Mum had me sewing,
can you believe it,
sewing dresses, as punishment!
I’ve learnt my lesson, sir.
So, honestly, truly and no kidding,
I didn’t tell Jacob to jump off the roof.
How is Mr Korsky, sir?
It must have been a shock,
having an eight-year-old land on your back.
But I hear it broke Jacob’s fall, sir.
Mr Korsky is a hero!
Maybe we should celebrate,
have a special lunch?
Ask Mrs Casey to order in pizzas?
Sorry, sir, I know that’s off the point,
so, trust me,
I will talk to Jacob about
outlandish flying experiments
and jumping off the roof,
I promise.’
JACOB
I didn’t see him.
I was looking up,
flapping my arms
as fast as they could go.
I only looked down
when my wings fell off.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Mr Korsky was leaning over,
filling the watering can.
What could I do?
I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck
to break my fall
and we both hit the ground,
like two hay bales
that rolled off the back of Dad’s truck.
Mr Korsky said a few words
I’m pretty sure are illegal at school,
words my dad said once
when he was fixing the chook shed
and the hammer slipped.
I reckon it’s okay Mr Korsky swore
because I still had my arms tight around his neck
and maybe he thought I was a criminal
trying to steal his wallet,
his gardening tools
or his bright blue watering can.
All those swear words
would have scared away any thief.
I was ready to run, too,
only it hurt in my arms, legs, back, ribs
and other parts I can’t name.
It felt better not moving,
lying on my back and crying seemed the best idea.
So that’s what I did.
Mr Korsky looked like he wanted to join me.
PETE
Nan says the road to our house
is like a train track without the rails.
Just stones and ruts and potholes.
It goes on for ages
and last year the shire council
decided the school bus couldn’t take it anymore.
Nah, they didn’t fix the road,
they stopped the service.
It’s only our family who lives out here.
Now we walk up Peaks Hill
and cut through the Jensen farm,
stepping over millions of cowpats
and dodging the stinging nettle
to reach the other road
where the bus does stop.
It takes me and Ursula twenty minutes
because she’s only six years old
and I have to hold her hand,
even if she doesn’t want me to.
We only have to do it for another few weeks
because the council has decided
to bitumen our road.
True.
All because the ambulance didn’t make it on time
when Grandpa had a heart attack last month.
If it was a proper road . . .
but it wasn’t and even though Dad and me
lifted him into the Land Rover
and Dad drove
like I’ve never seen him drive before,
we only made it halfway to town.
that clanked and creaked
and we jumped in the back.
But it didn’t do any good.
I held Ursula’s hand at the funeral too.
It was warm and soft and small.
I looked at her hand in mine for ages,
instead of looking at Grandpa’s coffin.
CAMERON
Last night
Mum had her flamenco classes,
Dad was working late
and my sister Simone was at netball
so
I was alone
and I’d told everyone
I was cooking my own dinner
and I promised to clean up afterwards,
no worries.
I looked in the freezer –
frozen pizza,
chicken wings
and yesterday’s leftover stew.
I checked the fridge –
eggs,
bacon
and the last slice of Simone’s cheesecake.
I searched the cupboard –
cans of minestrone soup,
baked beans
and an unopened packet of Tim Tams,
Mum’s favourite.
I stood in the kitchen for hours
trying to decide.
I was so hungry that I wanted everything . . .
but where to start?
To give myself time to choose
I sat in front of the television
with the remote,
flicking from chann
el to channel –
Discovery had a virtual trip to the moon
and there were cartoons on both Disney channels
and soccer,
cricket
and rugby league
on the sports channels
and there was a Simpsons hour
starting in five minutes
and I didn’t think that was enough time
to cook anything
so I switched off the television
and turned on the computer
and surfed the net
to see if I could find the games site
I was on yesterday
and I got caught up in a chat with my mate Alex
but he couldn’t talk for long
’cause his mum had just called him for dinner
which reminded me
I still hadn’t eaten
so I went to the kitchen
and placed two slices of bread on a plate,
then held the honey jar high above the bread
and squeezed,
great dollops of liquid gold dribbled over the bread
(and the plate and the bench . . . and the floor).
I promised myself I’d clean it up
before anyone got home.
But first, the sweet dinner!
I sat on the bench
and lowered the soggy bread into my mouth,
chewing and smacking my lips, eyes closed.
A honey empire and I was King!
After eating
I went to the lounge,
put my feet up
and stuffed lots of pillows all around me
before switching on The Simpsons.
That’s all I remember.
This morning I woke up in my own bed
so Dad must have carried me in
and I missed The Simpsons
and I didn’t cook anything
and I didn’t play any computer games
but, most importantly,
I didn’t open Mum’s Tim Tams
and eat them all!
JACOB
At the hospital
the kind nurse bandaged my right arm
all the way up to my elbow
and down to my fingers.
She also put some smelly yellow liquid
on my scratched knee.
As she did, she smiled and said it might hurt.
I said, ‘Not as much as falling off a shed.’
The doctor shone a torch in my eyes
and put a very cold hearing-aid-thing to my chest,