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us a wave! A proper one!” Toward the end of the dream, I suddenly feel weird and I realize that I’m actually naked. Yes, naked.
    “Geez, y’ right, mate?” someone asks from behind. Then the streaking dares start coming. “C’mon mate, I’ll pay your fine if you make it to the other side.”
    I refuse, and each time I do, another piece of clothing reappears over my sk
    The sick dream ends with me sitting there in my normal clothes again, glad and smiling that I didn’t streak or do the pitch invasion I was urged to do.
    As the dream suggests, I may be perverted and sick, but I’m not completely stupid.
    “You won’t catch me without my trousers. Not for long anyway.”
    No one hears.
    The players come back out.
    The security guard still cops a good mouthful.

CHAPTER 4
     
    During the next week the weather turned a corner to a more intense kind of cold. The mornings at our place were pretty hectic, as always.
    In her room, Sarah put her makeup on for work. Dad and Steve shouted out good-byes. Mum cleaned up all the havoc we’d caused in the kitchen.
    On the Wednesday Rube gave me a dead leg and then dragged me into the bathroom so Mum wouldn’t see me writhing around in agony on the floor in our room. I laughed and whimpered at the same time as he dragged me.
    “Y’ don’t want Mum hearin’ this.” He covered my mouth. “Remember — she tells Dad and it won’t be just me who gets it. It’ll be both of us.”
    That was the rule at our place. If there was ever any trouble, absolutely everyone in it copped it. The old man would come down the hall with that look on him that said,
I’ve had one hell of a day and I didn’t come home to mess around with you lot.
Then he’d pull out his backhander — either in the ribs or across the ear. There was no mucking around. If Rube got it, I got it. So no matter how bad a fight was, it never went further than us. We were usually in enough pain as it was. The last thing we needed was Dad getting involved.
    “Okay, okay.” I slashed my voice at Rube once we were in the safety of the bathroom. “Bloody, what was that for, anyway?”
    “I d’know.”
    “I can’t believe you.” I looked up at the stupid sap. “Ya give me a dead leg for no reason. That’s shockin’, that is.”
    “I know.” He was grinning, and it made me push him in the bathtub and try to strangle him, but it was no use — Sarah was banging on the door.
    “Get outta there!” she thumped.
    “All right!”
    “Now!”
    “All right!”
    When we were on our way to school we met some of Rube’s mates. Simon. Je Cheese.
    They were invited around in the afternoon for a game of what in our household gets called One Punch. It came about because we only have one pair of boxing gloves in our garage, so the game is pretty much a boxing match where both fighters have only the one glove. One Punch.
    We played it that same Wednesday, and we were keen. Very keen. Keen to hit. Keen to get hit. Keen to get away with it, even if it meant not socializing with the rest of the family. I mean, you’d be surprised howwell you can hide a bruise in the darker corner of the lounge room.
    Rube’s left-handed, so he likes to have the left glove. I get the right, which is my good hand. There are three rounds and the winner is declared fairly. Sometimes it’s easy to tell who wins. Sometimes not.
    This particular afternoon was a pretty bad one for me.
    We took the gloves out into the backyard and first up was Rube against me. Rube and I always had the best fights. It was no holds barred. All it would take was one good punch from me and Rube would really try to knock my head off. One good punch from Rube on me would send the sky into my head and the clouds into my lungs. I just always tried to stay up.
    So “Ding, ding,” went Cheese with no enthusiasm, and the fight was on.
    We circled the small backyard, which was half concrete, half grass. It was an urban box, not much bigger than a real boxing ring. Not