I glance sideways at Henry, strolling along beside me, his oversized thongs slapping at his heels.
‘What do you mean?’ I say.
‘When they sent you away,’ says Henry. ‘Where did you go?’
I think about making something up, but Henry’s honesty seems to have rubbed off.
‘I went to prison,’ I say. ‘A prison for kids. For teenagers.’
‘Cause you were bad?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Mick said you got it from your dad. Being bad, I mean. He said it’s in your blood.’
It doesn’t feel right to hear Henry say that. But it’s not like I haven’t thought it myself.
Genetics and blood – that whole family thing was something I thought a lot about in Croxley. I thought about my mother’s good and my father’s bad and what it might mean for me. I’d never really considered it before – the possibility that I was like my father. I never really thought I had much of him in me, but when my mum died and the guilt set in, everything changed. I began to feel the bad pulsing inside me, running through my veins, the kind of bad that made me angry with the world, made me do things I never thought I’d do.
After Mum died, I couldn’t handle being in the same room with my old man, couldn’t stand the sight of him. I didn’t have to pretend anymore so I began to spend less time at the flat. I stopped going to school. I stopped seeing my friends and hooked up with some people I met in the city one night. I started drinking and popping pills. I did whatever was going, and for a while those things made a difference and numbed everything I was feeling. But down the track they only made things worse. Whatever good was inside me seemed to vanish too. And the worst part was I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. Or anyone.
Henry’s voice jolts me back.
‘You don’t seem bad, Nate,’ he says.
‘Well, I was,’ I tell him. ‘I was really bad.’
Soon enough a strip of six shops appears in front of us. The first shop on the corner is a takeaway place called Maria’s, offering pizza, pasta, and fish and chips. There’s a woman out the front with a white t-shirt and greasy hair. She’s sitting in a chair studying the form guide with a cigarette trapped between her lips. She circles something with a red pen as we walk past.
When we get to the newsagent, I see a small group of people further up the footpath outside Chester’s General Store. It’s a loose circle of three boys and two girls, and they’re laughing and backslapping and messing around. From a distance, I’d say they’re all about my age.
Henry’s gazing nervously at them. ‘I’ll wait here.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘Nothin’.’
‘You sure?’
‘It’s too loud,’ says Henry. ‘I’ll wait over here, near the seat.’
‘Suit yourself. How about I get you something, then? What would you like? A chocolate bar? Chips?’
‘A surprise, please,’ says Henry.
I’m not really in the mood for games, but I play along all the same.
‘I don’t know you well enough to get you a surprise, Henry. You need to give me a hint. What kind of surprise?’
Henry looks confused. ‘A Kinder Surprise.’
‘Oh, you mean those chocolate eggs? You like them, do you?’
‘I like the things inside them. I collect them.’
Henry turns away and heads over to the wooden bench while I walk up the footpath towards Chester’s. They pretend not to notice me, but as I approach the group milling about on the footpath, I can feel their gaze poring over me. I can feel the boys weighing me up, marking their boxes with a tick or a cross. The same thing happened when I walked into Croxley. I was someone less, someone not to be trusted, just because I was new. It’s weird how people do that. They do it everywhere. Instead of looking for the good, they look for the worst in a person straight off – a reason to keep them out.
I walk slowly past the circle and make a point of nodding at the biggest bloke, before continuing on and into the store. People don’t know what to do with a blank face and steely eyes, even if it’s a bluff. I learnt that in Croxley.
There’s no one behind the counter when I go in. The store seems unattended, and a little sadder than it was yesterday. I look around at the tacky Christmas decorations that should have come down weeks ago, the sun-faded tinsel in the window and the wonky plastic tree behind the door.
I’m about to call out, when I hear voices somewhere near the dairy section at the back of the shop. I head down an aisle towards the fridge and see the girl with the wisp of purple hair. She’s wearing purple tartan today and she looks tense. There’s a blond guy standing beside her, just a little too close.
I size him up and decide we’re not that much different in height and weight. He’s wearing board shorts and a loose-fitting singlet. He glances over his shoulder when he hears me and dismisses me with a look. I’m not sure the girl’s all that happy to see me either. I try to remember her name – I think Mick called her Gem.
‘So, what do you reckon?’ the boy says to her.
‘No, thanks,’ says Gem.
‘Why not? It’d be fun.’ The boy cocks his head and blows air from his mouth. ‘You like fun, don’t you? I know you like fun.’
‘Go home, Marty.’
Gem checks some items on the shelves in front of her then ticks a checklist in her hand.
Marty laughs. ‘What? Do you like girls now?’
Something about the way Gem glances back at me doesn’t feel fair. It’s one of those ‘you’re all the same’ kind of looks.
‘That’s it,’ says Marty. ‘It all makes sense now – the clothes and the hair … why you don’t want to –’
Gem puts a hand up to stop him.
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Marty. I’m not into girls. The reason I don’t want to go out with you again is because there’s nothing about you I find remotely interesting.’
I laugh. It’s more of a snort, really.
Marty swings his head my way. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m Nate,’ I say. ‘And it sounds to me like you’ve just been told.’
Marty’s done with Gem. He’s embarrassed now so he shifts his focus to me.
‘You’re that prick from the city,’ he says. ‘The tough guy, yeah?’
Marty runs his eyes over me, then takes a half step forward. A full step would have been different. A full step would have told me he was serious.
‘This has got nothing to do with you,’ he says.
I raise my hands innocently in front of me. ‘I’m just getting some milk.’
I step past Marty and grab two litres of full cream from the fridge, then I close the door and turn to Gem.
‘You got any of those sour strap things?’ I say.
‘I think we’re out,’ says Gem. ‘I’ll have a look in a minute.’
Marty’s had enough of being ignored. As Gem walks off, he takes another half step forward.
I smile to make it clear I’m not impressed by the lack of commitment in his footwork.
He musters some courage and leans in a little. ‘Keep out of my way,’ he says.