Crossing the Line Read Online Free PDF Page A

taken on extra work at the growers’ market.’ He chomps into his sandwich. ‘Need the money. And man, is it hard going.’
    His defences are down. Guess he’s too tired to care. He talks freely about his job, the guys he works with, the trip he’s going to take when, and if, he saves enough money. He wants to go to South America, see a toucan in the wild.
    ‘Might only be a dream,’ he says, shaking his head and grinning. ‘Probably won’t ever get there – but hey, you gotta have dreams, right?’
    ‘Right, Matt. Definitely.’
    We talk some more about ordinary things. Then he stops and looks at me. He doesn’t say a word but I know what’s on his mind. I nod, trying to let him know that it’s okay, that I’m here for him. That he can trust me.
    ‘It was almost two years ago,’ he says, his fingers playing arpeggio on the couch arm. ‘I didn’t have any other rellos and I’d just turned sixteen, so the Department tried to run my life for a while. That lasted about five minutes before I got jack of it. I found ways of getting by on my own.’
    I don’t come straight out and ask him what ways he’s talking about, but he sees the question in my eyes, and answers it.
    ‘You know, bank robbery, kidnapping – stuff like that.’
    ‘Idiot.’ I hit him with a cushion, but I’m grateful that he’s cut through the tension. And so glad he has a sense of humour.
    ‘The stupid thing is,’ Matt continues, ‘I keep feeling guilty about the accident. I should have been killed too.’
    I don’t say anything because I’m sure he’s heard it all before. Sometimes listening is the best you can do.
    ‘People tell me it’s only natural to feel that way. It takes a long time to get over it, blah, blah. It’s all true, but it doesn’t make it any easier.’
    I’d like to hug him, tell him he’s not alone, but I just don’t know him well enough.
    ‘It’s going to be okay,’ I say.
    ‘You bet it is.’ He’s got his brave face back on.

    A few days later when the Department deposits my allowance into my bank account, I spend ages window-shopping, looking for something special for Matt. I find a fantastic book about inventions, and when I give it to him, his jaw drops.
    ‘For me?’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘For why?’
    ‘For sharing,’ I say.
    He nods, and I know he understands.

5

    N oel Palmer’s my shrink. It’s his job to let me talk about whatever I want, or so he explained during our first session. He’s a short, dark-haired man with olive skin and brown eyes that look inflamed around the edges. He often sneezes so I think he suffers from hay fever. Or maybe he’s allergic to something. Probably nut cases like me! Typically, he perches on the edge of his chair, fingers intertwined and face intent, listening to me as if everything I say ought to be awarded a trophy.
    I’ve been coming here since my last fostering broke down. Don’t know any more about him than I did that first day I walked into his office. He could be a serial killer for all I know – a cat burglar, rapist, man with a wicked past, wanted on six continents! Most likely he has a boring life – married with two-point-one children, sex on Saturday, church on Sunday, listening to people’s confessions the rest of the week.
    Call me dumb as, but I’m still not really sure what Noel wants me to say during this therapy business. If I ask him a question, like, ‘What do you want me to talk about?’ he invariably asks me another in return, ‘What would you like to talk about?’ This must be on Page One in the shrink’s book of rules. Never give a straight answer. ‘What do you think?’ is his number two classic question. Also, ‘Do you think that was appropriate?’ That word ‘appropriate’ comes up a lot.
    One day he asked if I thought it was appropriate to hassle my maths teacher. I looked at Noel as if he was an escapee from a funny farm. But then I said politely, ‘No, it probably wasn’t appropriate.’ It had been a