Square root

Autumn comes at us with gusts and bravado, kicking up sand and dirt. The trees are stripped and Jack treads on the leaves to feel the crunch. Luke Broadwater died in surgery but there were no tears left; Amanda Flowers took a month off school. When she came back her eyes were dark and her face hollow.

The teacher came into the room somewhat hesitantly. She whispers to the class to begin the exercises for the day, plonking texts thick as bibles on the desks.
All over it like yellow peril, Jack thinks to himself.
Her perfume stings the back of their nostrils. Amanda opens the book with a sigh, next to him. Since Luke, she had begun to see herself in Jack. There was no point kicking her while she’s down, he thought. She used to be beautiful, before grief’s ugly hand had taken hold. Girls used to attach themselves to her like lint.
Today we’re working with square roots, comes the whisper over the scratching of chalk. Amanda writes “Square Root” at the top of her page, as Jack makes his numbers do rope tricks. She kept drawing over “Root” until it was thick blue. The class begins to chatter and the teacher patrols the room. Jack’s numbers do aerobics in front of him. And still she tracing over “Root.” And then he feels her touching his dick.
Bugger off! he cries out in surprise.
Her chair falls to the ground as she storms from the room.
Umm. I’ll... he fumbles at the teacher, before pushing through the doors into the empty hall.
At the end she stands with her back to him. As he pulls her around the full force of those empty eyes slaps him square across the face. Before he can say, bloody hell! she’s pulled him into the boys toilets and kicked off her undies. Her face is wet with saliva and tears, as she probes her tongue into his mouth like the first fleet. The cubicle is small, and shrinking. Moments of fleeting lust are graffitied on the flaking paint. She stuffs his hand up under her skirt. He feels her stickiness. And the cubicle is shrinking. His breath is heavy and his shirt clings to his back. Her hand fishes into his pants and grabs at his dick. And the cubicle is shrinking. She pulls him into her. It feels like the world has stopped: that first intrusion. The Earth has stopped spinning on its axis and the universe has stopped twisting and folding. But then he’s back in that shrinking cubicle as she fucks at the grief. And still the cubicle is shrinking. Her hips grind into his, wanting more than he can give. Her nails claw at his back as his pace quickens. The cubicle is almost upon them, but still it shrinks and shrinks and shrinks. He feels all the energy in his body pool around his dick and shoots inside her. She wriggles around on his limp dick for a moment before unsaddling and putting her undies back on. Without so much as a word she shoots shame up at with those empty eyes, and leaves him standing there with a stupid look on his face and his red, flaccid dick. He feels as dirty as the tiny, tiny cubicle.

Armageddon

He’s lived at 24 Smith Street for six months now. Spring had abandoned the sleepy town, leaving the stillness of summer, and now summer is heavy with its last breaths. Jack greets the beginning of the new term with the zest of someone excited for it to be over. The gates are still there in painful twists and the austere demountables remained slouched amongst the dirt and sand. Girls twirl in their floozy skirts, flashing their brown legs. Their colourful bras can be seen beneath their white uniforms. Luke Broadwater had become a vegie over the holidays and the school wept like the stolen generation.
During the first week they’re ambushed. The principal stood in front of them like a sergeant.
This is what you’ve worked so hard for, he barked. The HSC is upon us!
It was hard not to picture him in Khaki. You’d think it was Armageddon.

Numbers

You get numbers. Numbers work. Black and white logic, harmony, like the keys of a piano. Yes and no. No maybes or what-ifs. No shades of grey. No ‘the sound of one hand clapping’ s or ‘Where for art thou’ s. Simple, beautiful logic. You feel powerful with numbers: god-like, a puppet master. You can send them gliding across the page like tango dancers in the romance of addition, or against each other like flint and metal in the combustion of multiplication. Yes, you and numbers have an understanding.

That nose

It’s spring. The days hold the promise of summer but the bitterness of the night refuses to thaw out. At eight o’clock, the wind’s already at it. The boxy house stretches and yawns in the morning warmth. Inside, the fire which cackled and spat at the cold is now a dying whisper. The grey mush which used to be Jacks Weet-Bix sits in front of him like a turd. In the bathroom, Jack washes the night from his face and brushes the morning from his breath. Specks of toothpaste take forms and dance across the mirror. He ruffles the pillow imprint from his hair, yells leaving! and trudges outside. Surveying the street from the veranda everything is as it always is: the lawns are trimmed, the flowers are blushing, and the street is empty. The sky is the belly of a great white, and is heavy with its weight. The trees are trembling and the cockies have long since fled. It’s the stickiness before the storm. Jack walks down the street toward the school, odd numbers to the left, even to the right.
At school he sits on the rim of the courtyard. Girls’ laughter floats on the wind and boys wrestle in their dirty uniforms. I watch as the bamboo next to the office block fights and jostle like buildings, for a piece of the sky. Inside the confusion of hollow limbs lies the real world. A world of problems and solutions, consequence and action. A world where questions have answers. The shrillness of the bell summons the kids to class. Jack walks into the room late and the smug parade is in full swing. It’s thick with the stuff. It sticks to him like the humidity. Smirks are slapped across their faces, and easy wit and self-satisfying laughter froth from their mouths. He tries not to look disgusted.
Mrs Hodinott walks into the room with her nose in the air. That nose! The most irritating nose in the universe. At the end of each sentence she sniffs and screws it up, like a mouse on cocaine.
Today we study poetry, she announces while her huge fake tits wrestle like dogs, under her tight blouse.
And the day is off to horrible start.

Some twisted facade

Every time we pass through those tortured gates a pulse shoots through our bodies. We crave education and it pains us to see it whore itself out. Bored teachers jamming thoughtless knowledge down our throats. We watch as they flounder around like characters from some twisted facade, pretending that life has taught them anything worth knowing.

White and two sugars

The strong westerly had forced the dogs from the streets to lie on laundry tiles and lick moisture from shower floors. Inside the old Commodore the heat was dizzying and Mr Jones’ hair stuck to his forehead in strings. I didn’t know his first name. He would just turn up sometimes.
You’ll like this family.
His eyes darted from the road to the rear view mirror to see my reaction. They’re real nice.

They looked nice enough. She wore a baggy shirt in an attempt to conceal her pendulous breasts, and he stood there, tall and dignified.
There’s lots of neighbourhood kids for you to play with, Mr Jones said, shifting in his ill fitting suit. And the school is just round the corner.
The house is square and red, a wooden number nailed next to the door like a badge. Twenty four. Even.
Well there’s no use standing there like a stunned mullet. Go and get your stuff’n take it inside. A smile snaked across his damp face.
Your room’s up the stairs, first on the right dear, says the woman. I think he’d said her name was June.
The room smelled of stale cardboard and mouse shit. It was bare, but for a desk and a bed, the sheets tucked in tight as a straitjacket. The window looked out onto the empty street. A lone maggie balanced on a telegraph wire which zig-zagged up the street. The breeze felt like a blow dryer on my face. Bushfire weather, I thought.
Wan a cuppa, Mate? The deep voice travelled up through the tired floor boards.
The springs yelped as I dropped my bag on the bed and plodded downstairs.
The kitchen floor was lino and the wallpaper blossomed pink and red.
White or black? the old man barked, his eyes taking in the full weight of me for the first time.
Sorry?
Ya tea
Oh, white thanks. Two sugars.