Bugs Read online

  First published in 2013 by Huia Publishers

  39 Pipitea Street, PO Box 17–335

  Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealand

  www.huia.co.nz

  ISBN 978-1-77550-133-6 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-77550-143-5 (EPUB)

  ISBN 978-1-77550-144-2 (Kindle)

  Copyright © Whiti Hereaka 2013

  Cover images: rabbits © stock09/Shutterstock Images LLC

  target © kobi nevo/Shutterstock Images LLC

  This book is copyright. Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced

  by any process without the prior permission of the publisher.

  National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Hereaka, Whiti.

  Bugs / Whiti Hereaka.

  ISBN 978-1-77550-133-6

  [1. Coming of age—Fiction. 2. City and town life—New Zealand—

  Fiction. 3. Teenagers—Fiction.] I. Title.

  NZ823.3—dc 23

  Published with the assistance of

  Ebook production 2013 by meBooks

  To those who were there.

  Especially Cam.

  1

  They call me Bugs. As in Bunny.

  Yeah, I know. When I started college I tried to change it to Rāpeti. Not because I’m a born again Māori or anything, just Rāpeti sounds hard. Harder than Bugs, anyway. But Bugs stuck. Nicknames, they’re kind of like – well you know Jez, he used to use his snot to put his posters up. He would dig around to find a really big one and then roll it around in his fingers to make a ball. Better than Blu Tack, he reckoned. Cheap too. So that’s what nicknames are like – snot on your finger.

  So, Bugs. Not because I’m twitchy or can run fast or anything like that. Mum says they call me Bugs because I’m a pest.

  Hardy ha, Ma.

  It’s because of my nose. Or I guess what I do with it – what I did with it. When I was a kid, my nose was always running, so I’d sniff. And when I sniffed my whole nose would wrinkle up like a rabbit’s …

  Like a Bunny! Hey check out little Bugs here, eh?

  It was probably Uncle who christened me. The couple of things he’s good at: nicknames and telling stories. Except he calls them ‘jokes’. But Uncle, a joke by definition has got to be funny. Nicknames and stories are what he’s good at. Bugger all else.

  Even when I stopped sniffing and learnt to blow my nose – Not on your sleeve, Bugs! – the name stuck around.

  It followed me to school, thanks to the neighbourhood kids, who helpfully corrected the teachers: It’s Bugs, Miss.

  It’s made every birthday predictable: rabbits on stationery, rabbits on T-shirts and bloody carrot cake.

  I hate carrots. Seriously.

  The worst part is everyone thinks they’re being so original, like I haven’t been here before. But I have to act happy otherwise Mum will clip me around the ears.

  Bugs. Bugs. Bugs.

  It’s tough to be a hard-arse when you’re a fluffy little bunny.

  There’s one of the fluffy bastards. There. THERE!

  I’m stalking my namesake at dusk in a paddock. Yeah, a paddock. I’m taking a little extra holiday at Nan and Pop’s farm. School started back this week, so I’ve probably got a whole lot of homework waiting for me when I get home. I’ve got this air rifle – old school, it looks like a .22; it was made back in the day when they didn’t have to make them look like toys. If you pump it enough, pump it until it strains against you, a BB can be lethal.

  Well, to rabbits.

  I’ve been reading a lot of dystopias lately; like Brave New World and 1984. Not because I’m supposed to – we don’t get to read anything good for English – because they seem to make sense. What I’ve figured out about dystopias is this: if you wake up and find yourself in the middle of one, the first thing you need to do is figure out if it was written for kids or adults. If it’s for kids, then an overlooked ordinary person, probably you, will be able to rise and change the world. If it’s for adults …

  then we’re all fucked. What dystopias are really about is power: who has it to lose and who doesn’t have any at all. And usually I’d relate to the guy without anything to lose; but today I have power, real power. Life and death in my hands.

  Line up the sights, breathe in, breathe out and … CRACK! A good clean shot, but the rabbit is not quite dead. This is what power means: I can let it live a little while longer in pain, or I can kill it quickly. So I pound its head with the butt of the rifle. The blood is warm on my hand and I’m sort of high, like really happy. I have this thought, this weird idea that I’ve killed myself. And I could do it again, and again.

  Ding-dong, the Bugs is dead!

  I’m like a frickin’ god, dying and living at the same time. I look at the rabbit’s eyes and try to see myself in them, but it’s too dark; like the whole world is trying to keep the truth from me. I use its fur to clean off the rifle and my hand and look for a place to stash the body because I don’t want to share this moment with anyone yet. It’s mine.

  Actually, there is one person I’d like to share it with – Jez.

  It’s always been Jez and me. Me and Jez; mates forever. True – we’ve been friends since kindy, that’s how close we are. When we were little we’d be at each others’ houses playing and stuff. Hide ‘n’ go seek, snap, tiggy … you know, little kid games. Our favourite used to be dress-ups. We had this box with all these old clothes – Nan’s old dresses and Pop’s old jackets, some gumboots that were the same size but from different pairs so one came higher up the leg then the other, Mum’s dressing gown, stuff like that. We’d come home from school and pretend to be pirates or wizards or act out a story the teacher had told us on the mat that day. I reckon Jez loved playing dress-ups more than me; he liked to be someone else for a while.

  One time we were playing Sleeping Beauty and I was Beauty. Yeah, I know. So there’s me in a dress pretending to be asleep on the bed and Jez is fighting dragons and hacking at roses and it’s in the story that he has to kiss me. So he leans over the bed … And because my mum has the greatest timing, she walks in and freaks out. She calls Uncle in, who has a bigger freak-out and starts yelling at Jez, What do you think you’re doing? Get off the bed, Bugs.

  Sick fucks. Like little kids know about sex and whatever. Just because there’s no such thing as an innocent kiss when you grow up.

  I’d seen Jez cry plenty of times before; you know, grazing his knee, or that time he fell flat on his face when he was walking along that fence. But no matter what Uncle said, no matter how wild he got – Jez just took it. Stood there like those soldiers on TV man, let Uncle yell and yell and just stood there. That’s what Jez is like – solid. Finally Uncle says Get out of here, both of you, and Jez takes off. Really sprinting. I run after him but I’m slowed down by the dress – I have to pick up the skirt in big bunches to free my legs. I catch up to Jez and he’s already shed his Prince gear. All he says to me is: Let’s not pretend any more, Bugs.

  Yeah, Jez. This one’s for you. I take the front paw of my rabbit, like I’m shaking hands – how’d ya do? – and feel for the joint with the pad of my thumb. When I feel that slight gap I ease the tip of my pen knife in and the paw comes free into my hand. I wipe the blade on the grass and cover the body with some leaves and stuff. The paw I wrap up in my beanie and shove into my jacket pocket, I’ll give it Jez when I’m home, then I head for the homestead.

  Inside, the air is warm and moist from the boil-up that’s for tea. It makes my cold nose itch, and I wrinkle it and rub it around and around with the palm of my hand. The light in the hallway shows up how useless my clean-up was – not only is my hand bloody but it has bits of fur stuck to it too.
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  You know that joke about the bear and the rabbit shitting in the woods and the bear goes ‘Do you have a problem with shit sticking to your fur?’ and the rabbit goes ‘No,’ and then the bear uses the rabbit for loo paper? Let me tell you that it’s not based in reality at all.

  ‘Bugs, come have your tea.’

  ‘Just washing up, Nan.’

  By the time I’m at the table, I’m squeaky clean and smelling of Palmolive.

  Sluuuuurp! The pork bones have been cooked so long that all it takes is a little kiss and the meat falls away from the bone. Uncle goes at his tea like he’s giving the pig a hickie – SLURP! Pop and Uncle argue over the tail – the best bit, all fatty and delicious. Pop wins because he always wins. He’s the man of the house. It must gut Uncle, who’s almost forty, to still be considered a boy.

  Nan uses the back bones because they’re the sweetest. I pull the bones apart to get to the marrow – this far apart and the pig would paralysed; a little bit more and it would be dead. I line my bones up on the plate as if they are lego and I can snap the spine back together.

  ‘Hey Bugs. You catch anything?’

  Uncle, never one to miss a jab even if his mouth is full, says, ‘Like a townie could catch anything but a cold.’

  And I join in with the laughter, because they think they’re laughing at me – but I’m laughing at them. They don’t know that these hands – smeared with pig fat and watercress juice – have held life and death today. They don’t know anything about me.

  In the morning the feeling has faded so I go to retrieve the body – no … the proof … no, my trophy. But bloody Blue has gotten there before me. He’s pinned the dead rabbit flat in front of him underneath his paws and he’s tearing at the belly with his teeth. The skin of the rabbit must be pulling against him because he’s moving his head like he does when we play tug o’ war.

  ‘Blue. Drop.’

  He ignores me. So I give him a kick in the ribs. He doesn’t even move his head, just looks at me side on so that I can see the whites of his eyes and – the nerve of the dog! – growls at me a little.

  Normally, Blue growling is not a big deal. He’s like any old man. Pop and Uncle are always moaning about something or other. Blue started complaining as soon as the grey settled in around his muzzle, so he’s always growling.

  Maybe it’s the blood that stains his muzzle and his teeth, maybe it’s the spit that drips from his jaw, maybe it’s the little puffs of fur that are being carried away on the wind, but this growl seems serious.

  ‘Hope you choke on it, you stupid mutt.’

  Whatever. I might have been pissed with him just then, but Blue’s family, you know? So by the time we’re sitting in front of the fire watching whatever boring show Pop insisted on watching but is now sleeping through, all is forgiven. But when Blue licks my hands and face, I kind of freak out and wonder if he has got a taste for rabbit.

  I’m meeting Jez in town. We wait for each other on the benches they’ve got outside on the main drag. It’s a good place to meet, centre of the centre. We tried meeting at the Great Lake Centre a couple of times. Great Lake Aside, more like. You can’t watch people drive past there – they just zoom off up State Highway One to somewhere better. Here on these benches you can watch the cars as they cruise past real slow, looking for a park, looking for their mates, or just looking. The best drive-bys are the ones where someone has just got their full licence and all their mates are hanging out the windows with the music pumped up loud. Hoping to get stopped because, whatever, they’re legal now. The Champs-Élysées has nothing on Horomatangi Street on a Saturday.

  I’m feeling all jittery walking down to the bench. I have the whole story planned out so that Jez will understand what it felt like out in that paddock. I have the paw in my pocket wrapped up in a bandanna – not blue or red, no gang colours, ’cos I know Jez is sensitive about that. I’m excited to see Jez and tell him about the rabbit hunt – the stuff about killing it (not the weird stuff about being a god or freaking out about Blue) – but turns out Jez isn’t excited to see me. I mean, he’s here, sitting on the bench. Sitting on the bench talking to some chick. Not even noticing when I rock up. Not waiting for me. He’s here, but he’s not here.

  Jez has the hots for Stone Cold Fox.

  Stone Cold. She reckons the kid’s at her old school called her that because she’s a fox.

  Her mouth is too big and her teeth too crooked to be an actual fox. She’s got frizzy hair and skinny legs. So I reckon she’s a Fox in surname only.

  Not that it matters to Jez – he’s got a hard-on for her. New meat – everyone’s sniffing around her because she’s the new girl at school. Because you don’t know that she used to eat play dough, you don’t know that she wet her pants at school, you don’t know that she still has a teddy bear or blankie or whatever. You don’t know anything about her. And that’s pretty sexy. Even if she isn’t.

  Jez is trying to act cool, be low-key. ‘This is my mate, Bugs.’

  ‘I better get some Raid then, eh?’

  I want to say No, as in ‘Bunny’ to her, but I know that will just make things worse. So I just laugh along like it’s funny. I look over at Jez – to share a sneer and a ‘that’s-not-even-funny’ eye roll. But Jez is laughing too, like he actually gets it, like he actually thinks it’s funny.

  Stone Cold, all right. Not because she’s a fox but because she’s a bitch.

  ‘So what do you actually do around here?’

  She says it in a snooty sort of way, like the town she’s stepped into is a big pile of shit. And it’s funny because if it was just me and Jez we would be saying just that – This town is shit, there’s nothing to do – but because she said it, because an outsider said it, we suddenly become, I don’t know, proud of our place.

  ‘Aw, there’s heaps!’ Jez is like those tourist guides except he doesn’t have an accent from the northern hemisphere. ‘Check out the mountains; if you’ve got the bucks and a car you could be skiing in a couple hours. Or the lake, you could hire a windsurfer or a kayak if you’ve got the bucks. Or bungee …’

  ‘If you’ve got the bucks? What if you don’t?’

  Man, the chick is ugly but she’s onto it. Yeah, plenty to do around here if you have the bucks – problem is, we never do.

  ‘This is what you do?’

  We’re sitting in a plastic pod thing – you know, one of those playground things that looks like it’s from Alice in Wonderland, bright colours and fish eyes for windows. It’s out of place here. The park has these big trees planted in straight lines and then there’s this thing – a bunch of trippy-arse mushrooms sprouting in the trees’ shade. I like it here, this is our place – me and Jez. We just sit here and talk shit. Scare little kids away, unless their parents have a go. But lately, since we’ve started to – what do they say? – fill in, we’ve had a good go at scaring them off too.

  It’s a bit squashed in the pod. Usually it’s just me and Jez but now she’s here. He’s just looking at her, kinda like Blue waiting for a bone, panting and drooling.

  ‘You dumb?’

  ‘Nah, B is smart as – top of the class.’

  ‘I mean, do you talk or what?’

  ‘Talks heaps, funny as. Say something funny, B.’

  He looks at me and I see Blue again eager for his tennis ball. Begging.

  Stone Cold’s head is tipped back just a little. She’s lifted her pointy chin up barely a centimetre but it’s enough so she’s looking down at me. Challenging.

  It would be now that I can’t think of anything to say – when my best mate is hoping I won’t make him a liar and some bitch is just waiting for me to fail. Where are my frickin’ god powers now?

  ‘This sucks.’ She unfolds her twig legs and crawls over Jez’s and my feet out of the pod. I feel like I can breathe again now that she’s gone, so I’m feeling pretty happy, until Jez says, ‘Good one, B,’ and follows after her.

  I look at them through the fish eye – she’s st
riding off towards the road and Jez is jogging to catch up behind her. He stops when he is almost caught up, turns back and looks at me. He nods his head, and I’m scrambling out of the pod.

  Who’s like Blue now?

  Stone Cold lives near the Intermediate School. We used to walk up this path on the way home and skate – whoosh! – back down at the end of the day. Her place is behind this big hedge, the kind that has red leaves at the tips. Someone has clipped it straight today – there are bits of leaves on the ground, a shock of red against the green grass like glossy drops of blood. The hedge makes me think of those mazes that they have at castles overseas. They say that you can find your way out of the maze if you run your hand along the hedge – just keep following, don’t lift your hand. I run my hand across the freshly cut surface as I round the gap to the front …

  ‘Far …’

  It is a frickin’ castle.

  Jez lives in a flat; he thinks we’re pretty well off – Mum has a job and we have our own house.

  But our place is nothing like this. Our place is a little box of a place, a kitset house. Something you could buy out of a catalogue plonked in the front of another place, just enough room to squeeze down the sides, a metre or so out the back to hang the washing. This place? It is a sturdy square of actual timber with a sweeping semi-circle of windows that look towards the lake.

  ‘Art deco …’

  ‘What, B?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I couldn’t help it. I think it’s the surprise at seeing this house, here. It’s weird. We used to walk up this street every day for two years with no idea this was here.

  I know this is going to sound strange but you know when you shake up a can of drink heaps and then hand it to someone and wait and wait until they open it and – whoosh! – as soon as they pull the tab, the drink comes rushing out? That’s me. This house has pulled my tab and whoosh, I’m bubbling over. Because if this is here, what else have we missed? We’ve been walking around and never turning our heads; we’ve only seen what’s straight ahead.