My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm Page B

and dry retches then sits back, looking utterly defeated. He leans forward and spits into the bowl again.
    I go back to bed, but I can't sleep. I think about what Sam said. She's right; I have to stop buckling to his wishes. Restless, I get up and go into the kitchen. I take some milk from the fridge and drink from the bottle. Then I head into the lounge room and am confronted with something I've seen dozens of times before. Dad's sitting in the flickering light of the TV, the sound off. He has taken the photo of himself off the wall. The one of him training with the assault rifle. He strokes the glass and looks up. I duck back behind the wall and tiptoe off to bed.

bluebird night out
    I've been working hard on my chest this week. I've rigged a chin-up bar under the awning out the back and keep doing push-ups in my room. I keep checking in the mirror to see if I've grown. I flex my biceps, tense my pecs, but nothing can distract me from the crevice in my chest. I try to expand it by breathing deep and holding my breath, almost to the point of passing out. Each morning I roll up a towel and lay my spine over it. Arms spread, I think of Sam as I stare at the ceiling. What would she think?
    We're already three games into the footy comp, but Dad's only coached the first two. He missed a couple of training sessions because of his migraines, and now that he's made it back, he's drugged to the hilt. He walks about the oval in a daze, can hardly give constructive feedback to anyone. He has a word to Maloney about playing me on the wing. Maloney pulls me aside afterwards.
    â€˜Did you tell him you played on the wing?’
    I nod. The truth was Maloney had me on the bench.
    â€˜What did you do that for?’
    â€˜It keeps him happy.’
    â€˜It hasn't made me happy,’ he says.
    I'm stoked that I'm killing two birds with one stone.
    Gez says to me before the practice match, ‘What's got into you? You're all bubbly.’
    I shrug. ‘Dunno,’ I say, but I do. It's Sam. How embarrassing. I'm all chuffed because I think Samantha Dean likes me.
    On the drive home after training Dad says, ‘I talked to Maloney about playing you at full-back again. He's not happy about it, but I told him you deserve another chance, considering how well you've been playing on the wing and all.’
    I turn the corner, feeling guilty.
    â€˜Well don't thank me all at once,’ he says, but goes on before I have a chance to reply. ‘He's the worst coach, you know. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I gotta tell someone who'll understand. You know how he put you on the wing the other week?’ He turns to me. ‘He said he can't even remember how you played, like you weren't even there. And he's supposed to have been coaching the team. Right joke that is.’
    â€˜No wonder they got you to coach,’ I say.
    â€˜That's right.’ He chuckles.
    â€˜All the boys reckon Maloney's useless,’ I say, glancing at him.
    He's resting an arm out the window, his chest driven forward. ‘They're spot on.’ But then he goes quiet and I can hear him picking at the deteriorating plastic on the door. ‘Do the boys say anything else?’
    â€˜What about?’
    â€˜Um … the coaching of the team.’
    Again, I take my eyes off the road and see that he's squirming in his seat. I know what he's driving at, but I don't let on.
    â€˜In what way?’
    â€˜In a more general sense. You know, apart from Maloney.’
    â€˜Apart from Maloney?’
    â€˜Yeah, you know.’
    I shake my head.
    â€˜About … about me.’
    Got him! He said it. ‘Dad, Maloney's all we've had the last few weeks.’
    He winds his window up, turns the heater on. ‘It's getting cold out there,’ he says.
    I drop him off home before going to Ryan's.
    â€˜Have you checked your BMI lately?’ he asks before he gets out.
    â€˜Twenty,’ I lie.
    He grins like a game show host, gets out,