My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm Page A

knees. ‘That's not fair!’
    She's grinning. She nods her head towards the path. ‘I've got a bus to catch,’ she says. ‘It's five o'clock already.’ Then she starts off.
    I don't follow right away. Instead, I watch her walk to the path. She might be short, kinda round, and hated by half the guys at school, but there's something about her. She's different. She's not like Lisa Patrick. She's more real, a get-what-you-take kind of person. She's the kind of friend I need right now.
    â€˜Are you coming, or are you just going to lie there?’ she calls.
    â€˜I thought I might stay and think about my greatness.’
    â€˜Oh, shut up!’
    But of course I get to my feet and catch up to her.
    At the bus stop she asks, ‘Do you really want to join the army?’
    I cringe at the question. The bus pulls in and we get on.
    â€˜Jack?’
    â€˜Not really. Dad wants me to.’
    â€˜Then tell him no. Tell him you won't do it.’
    â€˜It's not that easy.’
    â€˜How's that?’ she asks as the bus pulls out.
    â€˜His life's pretty miserable,’ I tell her. ‘Has been for years.’ I tell her about his migraines, about him bringing me up on his own.
    â€˜And by you doing what he wants you'll make things better for him?’
    I shrug. ‘It's not that simple,’ I say. ‘But maybe I will. Who knows?’
    â€˜That's a big sacrifice.’
    As we cross the river I look out at the sun getting low over Mt Coot-tha. ‘It's not like I'll be in the army forever.’
    â€˜Then how long?’
    I shrug. The bus enters the concrete passageway near South Bank. I can see Sam's reflection on the glass. She's looking at me.
    â€˜You haven't thought about how long?’ Her voice is higher than usual. She sounds confused.
    I look at my hands and breathe out slowly. ‘I don't know. A few years.’
    â€˜And you think that would be enough?’
    I run a hand through my hair. ‘I've no idea how many would be enough.’
    For the rest of the way she leans gently against me. No head on my shoulder, or hand on my lap, just our sides against each other. I cross one arm over my chest, but really, I want to hold her.
    Nearing home, the bus goes past our school and I think of what people would say if they saw me and Sam together like this. And I wonder if she really is easy for sex like everyone says. Maybe this is just some game of hers, leading me along. I stir in my seat, as if trying to get comfortable. Our bodies separate.
    When the bus pulls up near her street she says, ‘You'll have to make your own decision sometime. Show some balls.’
    Ouch. That hurts.
    Then she gets up without a goodbye, as if to make sure her point sinks in. But just before she gets off she yells down the aisle, ‘Tell him to shove it!’
    The bus pulls out. She waves, grinning hysterically.
    Late that night Dad's condition gets worse. It's a bit past midnight when I wake to the sound of him hurling his guts up into the loo. I roll over and fall back asleep, but it's not long before he's at it again. I get up to check on him and find him kneeling at the toilet, his hands on the rim.
    â€˜You okay?’ I ask, knowing how stupid it sounds, but what else is there to say?
    He turns to me. His face is so pale and loose it looks like it's about to peel away.
    I ask, ‘Do you want a glass of water? Mylanta?’
    â€˜Mylanta,’ he whispers and sits against the wall.
    There's a packet of Panadeine Forte on the kitchen bench, four pills popped. No wonder he's hurling—if it's not the migraine, it's too many pills on an empty stomach. I fill a glass from the tap and take him the bottle of Mylanta. He takes a swig from the bottle then sips the water before hanging his face over the toilet again.
    I look at him crouched on the tiles in his undies. It's a disgusting sight: his skin's pale, his gut hangs out, there's hair in his plumber's crack. He gulps