New Boy by Nick Earls

automatic,’ he says, ‘so you don’t have to worry about gear changes. But take it easy, particularly at first. Stay low down and only go up the banked bits when your speed takes you there.’
    He checks that I’ve got the helmet fitted right and that I’m comfortable in the seat and can reach everything I need to. Then I’m off, hopping and lurching and then driving across the dirt.
    Even with the helmet, the engine’s stupidly loud and I can feel it vibrating up through my body. I set off after Max. I’ve got no chance of catching him, but that’s okay. The wheels are spitting up red earth and I’m buzzing across the ground. I nearly stall on the first bend, but I hold it together. After two laps, I’m starting to get the hang of it and planning how to time the third better.
    When I get off to hand over to Ben, my entire body is jangling and my hands are numb. I realise I’ve been gripping the handlebars pretty hard. I pull the helmet off and the breeze feels cool on my sweaty head.
    Ben and Harry are most of the way through their turn when a bell rings back at the house.
    â€˜That’s lunch,’ Max says, and his father turns and waves. He signals to the others that they’re on their last lap.
    As we walk to the house, I can smell braai smells, and something burning. It turns out to be Max’s mom’s first attempt at roosterkoek. She meets us with a basket of burnt rolls.
    â€˜So, Herschelle,’ she says, ‘do I bin these, or . . .’
    â€˜The insides’ll be okay,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve been at braais where they’ve ended up blacker.’
    While we’re having lunch, Harry mentions Lachlan Parkes and Ben says, ‘I wonder what he’s doing these holidays. Practising his handball, maybe.’ He looks in Max’s direction. ‘Hey, Max?’
    Max says nothing. He’s gazing back up the hill towards the quad-bike track.
    â€˜Max?’ Ben says again.
    Max twitches and shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I was . . .’ He searches for exactly the right word. ‘I was in a bit of a dwaal.’ He nods. ‘That’s South African.’
    â€˜Dwaal,’ Ben says. ‘Does that mean staring like a zombie?’
    Max throws a chunk of black roosterkoek crust at him. ‘Just the staring part.’
    The others laugh, but it’s not at me, not at my language. I’m on the inside, or at least a step closer to it.

I don’t know how long it usually takes people to fit in, but the first step is not being shut out. I haven’t worked out how many steps there are after that, but I’ve taken a few of them this week.
    Max’s dad drops me home, and in the car, talking to him, I start looking forward to seeing my dad. He should just be back from the mine, if his plane’s landed on time.
    I run into the house to see if he’s there and he is. He’s still in his fluoro work jacket, standing in the almost-empty living room, looking around. I don’t know if he’s thinking through where the furniture might go, or remembering our living room in Cape Town, where the furniture seemed to fit perfectly and so did we.
    â€˜Hersch,’ he says, grinning. ‘So good to see you. Mom tells me your diary’s filling up.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t say filling up, but I’ve got a few things on.’
    Down the hall, I hear the bathroom door open and Hansie’s feet running as the toilet flushes. He bursts into the living room and tackles Dad around one leg.
    â€˜Hansie,’ Dad says, ‘if you don’t give me that leg back, how am I going to kick the ball?’ He twists around to face me. ‘We were about to muck around in the backyard if you want to join us. We’ll have a braai after.’
    Mom walks in. I tell her Max’s mom tried roosterkoek and made something like coal instead.
    She laughs. ‘It can take a few