Bugs Page 2

  ‘Are you guys coming in?’

  ‘Do … do we take off our shoes?’

  She looks at Jez like he’s mental or something.

  ‘No, just come in OK?’

  Jez goes in before me. I’m wiping my feet over and over again on the doormat as if poor will flake off like dried mud.

  ‘Far …’

  This isn’t the kind of place where they’d have scrambled eggs for tea because Pop hasn’t killed a beast lately. Bet their meat is wrapped up in plastic on trays.

  ‘Charmaine, is that you? Can you hang out the washing please?’

  ‘Mo-THER! I have friends over.’

  ‘You do? Oh, hello …’

  Now Stone Cold’s mum is actually Stone Cold. She’s got the same wide mouth but her teeth are perfect – straight, straight and white, white. She’s got curly hair too but hers has been, I don’t know, tamed with something so it rests on her shoulders, not sticking up around her head like a hedgehog. Although, there are little bits of leaf in it, so I guess she was in the hedge. Funny, in a place like this I thought there’d be a gardener. She’s wearing tight-as jeans, so I guess one day Stone Cold will grow into those skinny legs.

  I whisper ‘MILF’ to Jez, but all he does is jab me in the ribs.

  ‘Hello Mrs Fox, I’m Jeremy. This is …’

  ‘I’m Bugs.’

  She pulls off her gardening gloves and shakes our hands.

  ‘Please, call me Shelley. Are you two in the same class as Char?’

  I don’t know. I missed the first week of term because I was at the farm on ‘holiday’. Mum works in hospo – at a hotel that’s just become ultra flash – so holidays for us have always been out of whack with everyone else. Used to be cool when I was a little kid but now spending a week with just family is lame. You’d think the teachers would make a song and dance about it too – but if I guess so long as I’ve got a note from Mum they don’t care if I fall behind.

  Jez and Stone Cold are nodding so I nod too. Although if she’s in Jez’s class she’s not as smart as I thought. I love Jez, but he’s not the sharpest crayon.

  ‘Are you staying for dinner? I can whip up a frittata …’

  ‘Mum! Just order a pizza, OK? We’ll be in my room.’

  ‘Char, I don’t think that the sleep-out is appropriate …’

  ‘God, Mo-THER! We’re just going to hang out in there, it’s not like we’re going to have a threesome. Gross.’

  I swear that Jez blushes. God, he has no chance against this girl. She’s going to crush him just for the fun of it.

  Stone Cold takes a packet of marshmallows from the pantry and walks out. Jez follows behind her, but I’m caught in that awkward place where I don’t know whose side I’m on – because I’m no fan of Stone Cold, we’re not even friends; but her mum is well, her mum. You know, old.

  ‘Come on Bugs.’

  I give Mrs Fox a shrug and follow my ‘mates’ out of the kitchen. We walk through their lounge to get to the verandah. The furniture in here is old. Not the old that Jez and I are used to, not the stuff that someone’s grown out of or doesn’t need any more. This is the kind of stuff that’s passed down, the kind of stuff that has history. But I don’t have time for a good look because Stone Cold has opened the door already.

  ‘God, you stupid dog.’

  On the verandah, standing in our way, is a Dobermann. Not a very happy Dobermann.

  ‘Jesus, Duke. Quit it.’

  Stone Cold picks up a tennis ball from a shelf beside the door. Dogs – tennis balls are their kryptonite. Everything about Duke is focused on the yellow ball.

  ‘Get it, Duke.’

  Stone Cold makes a big show about throwing the ball, without actually throwing it, and Duke sprints off. The dog is all muscle and sleek coat, and bred to be like an arrow.

  ‘He falls for it every time.’

  Stone Cold puts the tennis ball back on the shelf.

  ‘He’ll be hunting for that ball for hours.’

  Pure-breds. Blue, you old mongrel, only your mother knows who your father is but at least you know when someone is having you on.

  Duke is way down the other end of the garden sniffing around the lemon tree for his ball. Yeah, the dog is thick all right. Like Stone Cold could throw that far. Typical girl; she throws from the top of the shoulder, using her wrist, not the weight of her body, to propel it. That’s what they mean when they say ‘put your back in it’.

  The sleep-out is in the Goldilocks zone around the house – far enough to be private, not too far if you’ve got to pee in the middle of the night. It looks like a little cottage – big windows either side of the door. Mrs Fox must have been busy around here too; there are these little blue flowers planted under the windows. It has two rooms that open off from the ‘hallway’ – which is really just big enough to swing the door open and to house a blanket box.

  ‘This is where they lived when the house was being built.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My grandparents. No, wait. Great-grandparents.’

  ‘So you’re from around here?’

  ‘Sort of. My dad was in the army so we’ve been living close to the base.’

  ‘Choice. You’ve got your own gym.’

  In one of the rooms is a whole bunch of gym gear – weights and machines and shit. Jez is on the weight machine pulling more then he should probably to impress Stone Cold. Poser.

  ‘It’s Dad’s. He likes to keep fighting fit …’

  She pretends to karate chop Jez’s throat.

  Jez lets go of the weights and they pancake back together with a clang.

  ‘He doesn’t like me touching his stuff …’

  I never knew Jez could move so fast. Usually he kind of slopes around the place. And I’m not saying that as a fancy way of saying walk. He really does slope; he kind of leans way back and leads with his dick. And look where that’s got us.

  ‘Cool.’

  Jez is already in the other room. There is a mattress on the floor piled up with cushions so it’s like a low-rider couch. On the opposite wall is a big-arse TV and stereo. Oh and did I mention the computer that glows with neon like a boy racer’s car? What about the Xbox, PlayStation and Wii? Because yes, she has them all.

  ‘Let’s fire up a game …’

  ‘Just what I was thinking, Jez.’ Stone Cold opens the packet of marshmallows. ‘But I was thinking old school.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Did you guys play Chubby Bunny when you were kids?’

  Like we would play anything called ‘Chubby Bunny’.

  ‘It’s really easy. You put a marshmallow in your mouth …’ Stone Cold does it really slowly and you can tell by the look on Jez’s face that he’s wishing that marshmallow was … you get the picture, it’s R18.

  ‘And then you say “Chubby Bunny”. You keep putting marshmallows in until you can’t say it any more. No chewing. No swallowing.’

  Jez blushes again. Dick.

  Stone Cold waves the packet in my face. I frickin’ hate marshmallows because I know what they’re made of – why don’t you just go nibble on a horse hoof? But this is a challenge, this is a test.

  ‘Chubby Bunny …’

  Jez is out after three – he cracked up and then swallowed the lot, so it’s just me and Stone Cold. Which if you think about it, isn’t fair. Her mouth is so big she could fit the whole packet as well as fulfilling Jez’s fantasy and still have room to spare. My mouth is human-sized.

  ‘Chubby Bunny …’

  Bitch is ahead of me and I know, I know that I can’t fit another one in. Worse, the ones I’ve started with have started to melt and are making me gag …

  And I’ve got to get them out because I’m not fucking going to die choking on a marshmallow. So I’m out the door – quick as a rabbit eh, Bugs? – on my hands and knees puking pink and white slime over the blue flowers.

  I look up and Duke is in front of me, a lemon is in his mouth. He drops it in front of me, proud that he
’s found his ‘ball’.

  And I can’t tell if that bitch is laughing at the dog or at me.

  2

  Just because you’re older than me, just because you’re an ‘authority figure’ doesn’t mean I’m going to automatically respect you. You know what I mean? I really like English, I really do, but every time Miss Shaw opens her mouth I just can’t take her seriously. And not because she’s a chick – my mum’s staunch as. You’d better listen to her or she’ll waste you, even if she’s a short-arse. I can’t respect Miss Shaw because all it takes is a couple of jabs – not actual punches, I’m not looking to get expelled, I’m not that stupid – just a sneer, a rolled eye, a little joke – and she’s all:

  Boo-hoo, boo-hoo,

  Detention for you,

  Now, go see the principal too.

  That was all me by the way – Miss Shaw wouldn’t know a rhyme scheme if she fell face first into it. Is it just me or does that make you think of muff diving? Miss Shaw: the lesbo poet teaching muffs tongue twisters.

  She smells

  Like sea shells

  The muff of Miss Shaw …

  Purple prose, eh? BOOM! See? Like I need her to teach me anything.

  She’s one of those teachers who says, At least they’re reading, and assigns us the latest supernatural romance.

  It’s bullshit.

  You don’t have doctors giving fatties junk food saying, At least they’re eating, do you?

  So instead of a proper teacher who can discuss with me why Huxley had a hard-on for zippers or why Winston finally broke in 1984 – you know, an actual lesson – I’m stuck here listening to a summary of the human/werewolf/vampire love triangle.

  If either of them had any pride in their species they’d have snapped that girl’s neck for being a whiny bitch.

  Miss Shaw spins a yarn saying that the book is good because the characters are our age, they’re going through what we’re going through, we can relate. Like half of us could relate to a white chick with a thing for dogs and dead dudes.

  I reckon Miss Shaw just wants to be sixteen again. I reckon she has a hard-on for the young guys in the movies. You tell me what the difference is between an old fulla getting his rocks off looking at teen porn on the internet and a bunch of dried up old biddies creaming themselves when a sixteen-year-old werewolf takes off his shirt. Pedos, all of them.

  I hope Miss Shaw doesn’t ask me to ‘participate’. All I bloody need is another detention for telling teachers what I think. Not that any of them really want to know what I think. I reckon some of them are amazed I think at all.

  Now before you dismiss what I’ve got to say with an eye roll, a tut, and a shake of the head, let me just say that I have nothing against education. Or even teachers (well, some of them). But you’ve got to admit that some of the teachers see us as enemies too. How about the time when we were dissecting rats and Mr James goes Hey look at this and he pulls the penis up and snips it off and all the guys in the class double over and he laughs? Or Miss Barnes, who will throw whatever’s in her hand at you if you’re talking? Or Miss Russell, who threw that basketball at me really hard when I was telling some chick about my skills, branded me in the head with it, and then, smart as, goes, Those skills, eh Bugs? Last term, even Miss Shaw said to us You’re really nice kids, I’m sure. It’s a pity you’re all going to fail.

  That’s the kind of shit we put up with every day, you know?

  And I like to learn. Finding out how the world and shit works is actually interesting to me. But high school, man. High school. I’m just not sold on it. To me, high school is a classic example of a dystopia. I’m not being smart either. Seriously. Check it out:

  Conformity:

  Green College V-neck jersey.

  White formal shirt (must be worn with tie).

  Green College tartan skirt (not rolled at the waist, must hang 10 cm above the ground when kneeling).

  Black stockings.

  Plain, black, flat, lace-up shoes (no ballet/sneaker/skateboard/ casual/sporting type footwear; no coloured sections, coloured trim or coloured laces).

  Hair ties must be plain black, white, brown, red or green.

  Make-up and fingernail polish is not allowed.

  Restricted freedoms:

  See above, plus add in school hours and schedules.

  Constant surveillance:

  Teachers everywhere, and we’re one year-nine-gets-punched-in-the-toilets away from CCTV.

  Censorship …

  ‘Be quiet, the lot of you!’

  Sometimes, Miss Shaw has the best timing, I swear.

  ‘Now I know some of you are still in holiday mode …’ Miss Shaw looks straight at me when she says this, no shit. At least someone noticed that I was gone. ‘But you all need to start thinking about what you’re going to be doing next year.’ Miss Shaw wags a course book at us like she’s telling off a naughty dog. ‘Course planning, OK people? Think carefully about your choices. Year thirteen is important.’

  Year thirteen. Now there’s a good name for a dystopia. After thirteen years they are unleashed upon the world. Can they survive? Can the world survive them?

  Thirteen. You know in some places around the world there’s no such thing as a thirteenth floor, they just skip right over to the fourteenth. Thirteen echoes back to Judas in the Garden of Gethsemane – it is betrayal, it is death. It is the number of years that I will have served before they churn me out as a fully fledged automaton, marching in time with the rest of the world.

  Miss Shaw gives a pile of papers to each of the geeks sitting in the front row – take one, pass them back, take one, pass them back – we’ve done it so many times, in so many classes, for so many years that we don’t notice it any more. It’s just automatic; we’re cogs doing exactly what they expect of us. When the pile arrives at me I hold it in both hands, wondering what would happen if I just threw the lot in the air, or ripped them up. What would happen then? Would my small act of rebellion ripple out across the school? Would there be chaos? For a short while would I be triumphant? Would my name be whispered beside lockers, a kind of nod and wink to those who resist? Would it be detention or my head trapped in a cage with a hungry rat? But I’ve been conditioned so well that I’ve taken one and passed them back before I even realise it. How much more of my life is just a reflex, a habit? Are the choices on this page actually real, or am I just following my programming?

  Fuck. Classic dystopia. Tick, tick, tick, tick and tick.

  ‘So, to make sure you guys actually read the book and fill out the form we’re going to spend the last twenty minutes going through the course books, OK?’

  Translation: You guys take care of yourselves while I read my vampire kiddy porn and think of the boys in the First XV.

  I look out the window. A group of year eights are being led around the school by a kid who has barely been at the school six months – her uniform still hangs around her body as if it has been taken from the packet this morning; new and unbroken, like her spirit. She shares the excitement of the kids she leads – hell, it was only a year ago that she was being led herself – look at the buildings! Look at the field! Look at the gym, the hall, the tuckshop! All so new and big and grown up!

  Grown up, because that’s all you want to be then. Here I am about to lock in the direction of my life and I would trade it in a second to be one of them – new and unmoulded. Those endless Saturdays just skating through life, not realising what I had. Maybe that’s why Miss Shaw likes to read about teenagers; she thinks her life was less complicated then. And I guess life is for the teenagers in the novels that she reads, but that’s fiction, not real life.

  I was barely older than that kid, that time that the teachers rounded up all us kids – actually rounded us up – no shit, it was like the teachers were header dogs. I reckon you could hear the principal blowing on a shepherd’s whistle and calling out Get in behind Mr Jackson … Stay Miss Barnes … Come around, come around …

  Anyway, there’s
all us kids – OK, all us Māori kids – rounded up for a ‘seminar’ on Māori ‘achievement’. What it really was – a bunch of loser seniors saying how hard they’d worked to pass. Just pass. And then they hit us over the head with statistics about how most of us would fail; most of us would amount to sweet F.A. And it was supposed to be motivating. Well, I bet there were a couple of people in there like me who wanted it even more after we were told that we couldn’t have it.

  But I could see it in the room. Everyone else was slouching in their chair; they had this look in their eyes – defeat. See, if they’d read 1984, they would have known that it was Big Brother just trying to keep them down. Then maybe more of us would feel the urge to push against their stats because we would see that it is all about control. Them controlling us.

  OK, yeah, if we had all read the book, then I guess we’d all have felt defeated, knowing for certain that the state would crush us no matter what we did. So maybe if we had just read up to the sexy parts, you know, the meetings in the park? Yeah, the fully ‘adult’ version, if you know what I mean. If we’d just read up to the part when they believed that they could be free, maybe we’d have believed it too?

  This is how I see it: you know when you’re a little kid and they teach you to high jump with that scissor kick thing? And apart from the kids that run from the right even though they’re goofy and knock the pole down no matter the height, most of the kids are fine and clear it. Until it gets too high, and now everyone’s like that goofy kid. That’s when the teacher goes Let me show you the Fosbury Flop – and it’s like a magic trick: you can sail right over even if it seems way too high. That’s what they should be teaching us: how to clear the bar, not how high it is above our heads. That’s what I reckon, anyway.

  On the way out Jez said to me: What’s the point in trying if I’m gonna suck anyway, eh Bugs?

  I flick through the course book, marking the pages of the courses I will apply to take.