My Private Pectus Read Online Free PDF Page B

say.
    Ryan looks at me from the passenger seat.
    â€˜Have Gez's eighteenth up there.’ I watch Gez's reaction in the rear-view mirror. He grins, leans forward then grabs my nipple and twists.
    â€˜Hey!’ I yell and pull his hand away. The car jerks and he lets go.
    â€˜Great idea, Sticks,’ he says.
    And for the rest of the way we talk about the party.
    â€˜There'll be a bonfire on the sand near the lake,’ I say.
    â€˜And we'll turn the shack into a dance floor,’ Gez says.
    â€˜And I'm gonna root some chick out in the dunes,’ Mike yells.
    I turn the stereo up and the speakers distort, Ryan slaps the dash with the beat, Gez sings along.
    By the time I drop them off my mood is back up. I've got something to look forward to: a party at Currimundi! It'll be a cinch getting people along.
    Nearing home, I slow down as I go along Deshon Street. I peer at the shops: panel beaters, an engineering works, a wrecking yard and Oscar's, the mechanic. That's where Dad takes the Pissan. I pull in thinking I'll pick up a few second-hand door handles for the Bluebird.
    Oscar's giant shed smells of cigarettes and grease. He's behind the counter, wearing oil-stained jeans and a tucked-in blue T-shirt with holes that reveal the white skin of his fat stomach. I tell him what I want and he thumbs in the direction of the wrecking yard.
    â€˜I need a screwdriver,’ I say.
    He scratches his greasy hands in his beard and mumbles something I can't catch and pulls one out from below the counter.
    Ten minutes later I return with two door handles I took from a Bluebird shell out the back. I slap a tenner on the counter and he nods in appreciation. Then just as I'm about to leave I see something—an advert stuck to the counter with masking tape. Oscar's looking for a casual to start in early October. It says apply within as if you're not in already. He sees me looking and hands me a business card. I shove it into my pocket and drive home without much thought.
    Pulling into the driveway, I still feel pretty good. Then I feel great when I get to the door and realise Dad's not in. Knight Rider yelps, runs circles around my feet and slobbers in excitement. I go back out to the Pissan and unload my board and take it to the back shed. I go back for my bag then head inside. Cranking the lounge room stereo I sing along, but when I get to my room I stop. My bag slips from my shoulder and thuds to the floor. There's a brand new jersey on the bed and a pair of red footy boots on the floor.

cuppas cops the lot
    It's after school. The boys mill around the oval, pushing and tackling each other. I'm sitting on the edge, not wanting to be here. Our first training session. Dad's over at the Pissan unloading brightly coloured field markers and his favourite Steeden footy.
    The P is teaching Cuppas how to pass the ball by making it spin and torpedo through the air. Cuppas throws another wobbly pass. As I get close I can hear The P say, ‘Jeeesus! How many times do I have to show you?’
    â€˜Rack off,’ Cuppas says.
    The P says, ‘You're a wanker.’
    Cuppas grabs his man boobs and shakes them.
    I stop next to Gez, who looks at my boots.
    â€˜I can't believe they're red,’ he says, grinning.
    His boots are new as well, but they're cheap. Black. Inconspicuous. He scuffed them against the wall of the change room before coming out. They look a season old already.
    Frank Maloney wanders onto the oval, a net bag of footballs slung over one shoulder. Dad's with him, chatting away, almost bouncing with excitement. But he's also nervous. I can tell by the way he keeps rubbing the scar on the back of his neck. He scans the faces and bodies before him, probably trying to guess at their calibre. His chest is puffed, but not enough to stop his round belly from protruding over his shorts. A number of the boys turn to me, grinning. Steve pads his own stomach in reference to Dad's.
    Maloney gathers us around.