like nothing.’
‘Serious, it was nothing. They just wanted to know about a soccer drill.’ CJ jabbed Nic’s shoulder and jogged towards the locker room, adrenalin rushing through his body.
CHAPTER 7
The clanging bell for recess dragged me back to the classroom. Only it didn’t sound like any school bell I’d heard before.
‘No one leaves this room until I say so,’ yelled Mr Agar.
Groans drowned out the bell and the sound of chair legs scraping the floor.
Outside, Mrs Gray stood in the middle of the pavers ringing a massive bell. The bell part was brass and the handle wooden. It had to be 100 years old, at least. I snorted.
‘Haven’t ya seen a bell before?’ asked Jack Frewen.
‘Not this century.’
‘Callum’s probably used to an electronic bell.’ Mr Agar spoke as if he and I had heaps in common. ‘The school council’s applying for a grant to install an intercom system, including a bell, Callum.’
As if I care.
‘Tool,’ sneered Jack.
‘Frewen, lose the attitude during recess.’ Mr Agar shot him that teacher warning look.
‘Mr Agar, I’m busting.’ I recognised the big kid’s voice.
Laughter rippled across the class.
‘Right, you lot can leave,’ said Mr Agar.
The portable vibrated with noise—chair legs dragging, drawers slamming, kids chattering. I closed my new exercise book and reached into my backpack for my lunch box. White bread sandwiches, a banana and three Anzac biscuits, which Nan must have made. The biscuits were irregular shapes, not perfect circles like the ones from the supermarket. A memory of packing my own lunch flashed through my mind. Muesli bar, organic fruit, a flat bread roll, or, if Chris hadn’t eaten it all while he was correcting assignments, left-over paella. By the time I took out the biscuits and closed the lunchbox lid, the rest of the class had gone.
Mr Agar strolled down the aisle and sat on Klay’s desk. ‘So you’re the famous Jim Alexander’s grandson.’
‘Famous?’ I asked, my face screwed up.
‘Absolutely. Jim’s a living legend around here. Backbone of the community.’ Mr Agar leant forward. ‘Surprised we haven’t seen you around here before.’
I shifted in my seat.
Mr Agar leant back. ‘Where’d you go to school in Melbourne, Callum?’
I avoided looking at him. ‘St Patrick’s.’
Mr Agar nodded. ‘Did you like it?’
‘I guess.’
‘Bet your favourite subject was PE.’
‘Why?’
‘Just a guess. Do you play footy? ’
A chill seeped down my arms. ‘Nah.’
‘Grandson of Jim’s not playing footy?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s a shame, with your build and height. What about basketball?’
This time I shook my head.
‘You’re not making this easy, Callum. Soccer?’
A chill ran through my body. ‘Not any more.’
‘Why’d you stop?’
‘Can I go, Sir?’ I asked, leaping to my feet.
Mr Agar frowned. ‘Sure.’
I strode towards the bench in front of the ramp. The noise of kids laughing, shouting and squealing drifted across the yard. After two bites of Nan’s Anzac biscuit I dropped it into the garden. A snail retracted into its shell as the biscuit landed beside it. I leant back and closed my eyes, soaking up the weak sunshine.
‘Make the most of it, Callum.’
I opened my eyes and sat straight. Mrs Gray was standing at the end of the bench, holding the ancient bell. ‘Winters are icy here. They used to be wet too.’ She held up the bell. ‘Want to ring this for me?’
‘I’ll be right.’
She studied me quietly for a moment before continuing towards the playground and oval. The bell rang out and echoed in the paved area.
The big kid with the slow voice, Luke, blundered around the corner. He was taller than me and much bigger. The other things that stood out about him were his hands. They were huge. He could hold a footy one-handed, easily. Not that I could imagine him playing footy. He ran like a prep kid, hands curled into fists, head down and face stern.
Luke stopped
‘Serious, it was nothing. They just wanted to know about a soccer drill.’ CJ jabbed Nic’s shoulder and jogged towards the locker room, adrenalin rushing through his body.
CHAPTER 7
The clanging bell for recess dragged me back to the classroom. Only it didn’t sound like any school bell I’d heard before.
‘No one leaves this room until I say so,’ yelled Mr Agar.
Groans drowned out the bell and the sound of chair legs scraping the floor.
Outside, Mrs Gray stood in the middle of the pavers ringing a massive bell. The bell part was brass and the handle wooden. It had to be 100 years old, at least. I snorted.
‘Haven’t ya seen a bell before?’ asked Jack Frewen.
‘Not this century.’
‘Callum’s probably used to an electronic bell.’ Mr Agar spoke as if he and I had heaps in common. ‘The school council’s applying for a grant to install an intercom system, including a bell, Callum.’
As if I care.
‘Tool,’ sneered Jack.
‘Frewen, lose the attitude during recess.’ Mr Agar shot him that teacher warning look.
‘Mr Agar, I’m busting.’ I recognised the big kid’s voice.
Laughter rippled across the class.
‘Right, you lot can leave,’ said Mr Agar.
The portable vibrated with noise—chair legs dragging, drawers slamming, kids chattering. I closed my new exercise book and reached into my backpack for my lunch box. White bread sandwiches, a banana and three Anzac biscuits, which Nan must have made. The biscuits were irregular shapes, not perfect circles like the ones from the supermarket. A memory of packing my own lunch flashed through my mind. Muesli bar, organic fruit, a flat bread roll, or, if Chris hadn’t eaten it all while he was correcting assignments, left-over paella. By the time I took out the biscuits and closed the lunchbox lid, the rest of the class had gone.
Mr Agar strolled down the aisle and sat on Klay’s desk. ‘So you’re the famous Jim Alexander’s grandson.’
‘Famous?’ I asked, my face screwed up.
‘Absolutely. Jim’s a living legend around here. Backbone of the community.’ Mr Agar leant forward. ‘Surprised we haven’t seen you around here before.’
I shifted in my seat.
Mr Agar leant back. ‘Where’d you go to school in Melbourne, Callum?’
I avoided looking at him. ‘St Patrick’s.’
Mr Agar nodded. ‘Did you like it?’
‘I guess.’
‘Bet your favourite subject was PE.’
‘Why?’
‘Just a guess. Do you play footy? ’
A chill seeped down my arms. ‘Nah.’
‘Grandson of Jim’s not playing footy?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s a shame, with your build and height. What about basketball?’
This time I shook my head.
‘You’re not making this easy, Callum. Soccer?’
A chill ran through my body. ‘Not any more.’
‘Why’d you stop?’
‘Can I go, Sir?’ I asked, leaping to my feet.
Mr Agar frowned. ‘Sure.’
I strode towards the bench in front of the ramp. The noise of kids laughing, shouting and squealing drifted across the yard. After two bites of Nan’s Anzac biscuit I dropped it into the garden. A snail retracted into its shell as the biscuit landed beside it. I leant back and closed my eyes, soaking up the weak sunshine.
‘Make the most of it, Callum.’
I opened my eyes and sat straight. Mrs Gray was standing at the end of the bench, holding the ancient bell. ‘Winters are icy here. They used to be wet too.’ She held up the bell. ‘Want to ring this for me?’
‘I’ll be right.’
She studied me quietly for a moment before continuing towards the playground and oval. The bell rang out and echoed in the paved area.
The big kid with the slow voice, Luke, blundered around the corner. He was taller than me and much bigger. The other things that stood out about him were his hands. They were huge. He could hold a footy one-handed, easily. Not that I could imagine him playing footy. He ran like a prep kid, hands curled into fists, head down and face stern.
Luke stopped
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