Riggs Crossing (3 page)

Chapter 6

Mr Brentnall sits across from me. He’s about forty, tall and lanky, with a pleasant, thoughtful-looking face. He’s wearing black jeans, Blundstone steelcaps, and a neatly ironed long-sleeved white shirt. I can’t work out whether he’s a teacher or a social worker. It’s his job to figure out which school I should go to and what year I should be in.

‘I’m not sure what to make of your test results, Len,’ he says, not as if this is a problem. His lack of curiosity is a relief. Most people get annoyed when they don’t know what to make of me. ‘Your mathematics scores are excellent. You didn’t miss a single question in the weights and measures section.’ Mr Brentnall looks up from the folder. ‘Did you do all the problems in your head?’

I nod.

‘I thought so. You didn’t make any notes in the margins or on the scrap paper we gave you. Your reading comprehension and writing skills are similarly impressive. As for history and science . . .’ Mr Brentnall frowns slightly and shakes his head. ‘I bet you were home-schooled,’ he says, more to himself than to me. ‘These results don’t make sense otherwise.’ He closes the folder. ‘Anyway, you’ve got some catching up to do in some areas. But that shouldn’t be too hard.’

I tell Mr Brentnall that I don’t want to go to Ramsay Training Institute if it’s full of people like Bindi and Cinnamon.

Mr Brentnall looks surprised. ‘Why, Len, have you been worried that we were going to send you to Ramsay?’

I nod again.

Mr Brentnall shakes his head and laughs a little. ‘Ramsay Training Institute is a school for kids who’ve been in trouble with the law or who have serious behavioural problems. We’d never send someone like you to Ramsay.’

I look down. ‘It’s not just that I don’t want to go to Ramsay. I really don’t want to go to school anywhere.’

To my surprise, Mr Brentnall doesn’t argue.

We agree that I’ll study with a private tutor three days a week. If my progress is satisfactory, then I’ll begin year nine at a normal school at the start of the next school year. If I do well enough on my exams, I might have a shot at going to a selective school, where there’s guaranteed to be nobody like Bindi or Cinnamon.

‘We can discuss other options further down the line, when you’re settled in a foster home,’ Mr Brentnall says, putting my test results back into the manila folder. ‘There’s even some scholarship money available, if you’re interested in going to a private college, like International Academy.’

I leave Mr Brentnall’s office feeling relieved that I don’t have to go to school right away. I push the part about the foster home to the back of my mind.

Chapter 7

It’s a couple of weeks before anything actually happens. I fill my time reading the books I nicked from the library and taking walks through the neighbourhood. I overhear Lyyssa having arguments on the phone. I think she’s arguing with Mr Brentnall, and I think they’re arguing about me. Lyyssa’s voice gets all shrill and she keeps saying things like ‘importance of balanced and structured education’ and ‘healthy interaction with her peers’. I’m dead certain that whatever plans Lyyssa has for me would be a total disaster. Does she want me to go to Ramsay, where most of the kids are even worse than Bindi and Cinnamon? Does she want me to go to that snotty girls’ school up the road, where the mothers drive up in Land Rovers and Mercedes to pick them up when school lets out?

Fortunately, Lyyssa loses. I can tell she didn’t get her way by the tightness around her mouth when she calls me into her office, forces a smile and tells me that ‘an arrangement has been agreed upon’ where I’ll be tutored privately, and intermittently tested by the Department of Education to monitor my progress.

The arrangement goes like this. Three days a week I see Renate Dunn. She’s Mr Brentnall’s partner, which is how he got the idea for her to teach me. Miss Dunn is a professor of educational psychology at the University, where her office is. Miss Dunn is tall, maybe about thirty-five years old. She usually wears a black calf-length skirt with Doc Martens, a black jumper and a heavy silver necklace. I can’t decide whether she’s pretty or not. She has a straight nose, a firm jaw line, clear skin, and dark blue eyes, but she never wears any makeup. If she did wear makeup, get contacts instead of those glasses, and lost a bit of weight, she could look like one of those old-time actresses who made movies when they were black and white.

Miss Dunn’s office is lined with bookshelves, and she has posters on her wall, but that’s where the similarity with Lyyssa’s office ends. Lyyssa’s bookshelf is a brand-new metal one from OfficeWorks; Miss Dunn’s is a huge old wooden thing that takes up a whole wall. Lyyssa’s office is painted pale yellow; the walls of Miss Dunn’s office are a nondescript off-white. Everything on Lyyssa’s walls is meant to be instructive or inspiring; the stuff on Miss Dunn’s walls is there because it’s interesting or beautiful. The meaning of every single framed poster on Lyyssa’s walls is always summed up in a cheesy slogan. ‘
Pot hurts’. ‘If you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll probably end up somewhere . . . else’. ‘One Day at a Time’. God grant me the strength to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and the wisdom to know the difference’.

There are no slogans on Miss Dunn’s pictures, and the point of the pictures isn’t always obvious. There’s a Japanese kimono on a hanger suspended from the ceiling behind Miss Dunn’s desk, filling the space between the two windows. On the wall opposite the bookshelf, there’s a framed Chinese character. I have no idea what it means, and there’s no slogan or caption to explain it. There’s also a pencil sketch of a building that looks like a church, and a photo of a sign taken in some tropical foreign country. The sign says ‘Commit no Nuisance’ in English, but above the English is writing in another language that has totally different letters. I bet it’s something funny, but you’d have to understand what the foreign writing says before you’d get the joke.

Lyyssa wouldn’t know any language except English. Miss Dunn would.

I take the bus by myself now, but first Lyyssa had to bring me here and introduce me to Miss Dunn. It was pretty embarrassing, bumbling into the parking lot in a van with ‘Inner West Youth Refuge’ written on the side. Then we had to walk across campus with everyone looking at me like, what’s a kid doing here? Naturally, Lyyssa took us to the wrong building and we had to ask directions from a mean-looking secretary who didn’t like being interrupted while she was photocopying.

Finally, we made it to Miss Dunn’s office, ten minutes late. I remember Lyyssa breathlessly gabbling an apology to Miss Dunn, and Miss Dunn sizing up Lyyssa in one shrewd, penetrating glance. Miss Dunn handed Lyyssa a list of the books I needed, then gave me a page explaining what she wanted me to read before our first lesson. Lyyssa and Miss Dunn talked about lesson plans and such, but I didn’t listen too closely to what they said. What they said to each other with their eyes and body language was more interesting. Lyyssa, with her stiff back and her fake smile, was saying,
You think you’re better than me because you teach at university, but you’d better remember that I’m officially in charge of Len.
And Miss Dunn, with her cool blue gaze taking in Lyyssa’s twee plaid tunic, was saying,
You’re just a dumb social worker. All you do is put your nose in other people’s business.

We had to rush to the bookshop before it closed, then hurry back to the van so we could be back home before Bindi and Cinnamon. After we left, Lyyssa turned to me and asked brightly, ‘So, Len, what do you think of Miss Dunn?’

What’s the point of a question like that?

‘She seems really smart,’ I replied. ‘I’m glad she’s going to be my teacher.’

Lyyssa kept quiet for the rest of the short drive back to the shelter.

Chapter 8

My lessons are on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, for an hour or two at a time, depending on Miss Dunn’s schedule. If there’s no one else in the lounge room in the evening and I’ve finished all my homework, I sometimes watch TV.

I don’t watch much TV, but there is one show that I like. It’s called
Clarissa Hobbs, Attorney at Law
, and it’s about a woman lawyer. Fortunately, nothing that anyone else wants to watch is on at the same time. Bindi and Cinnamon always watch stupid stuff like
Shop with LeeLee
, the reality TV show where LeeLee Nelson goes shopping with the people who are her friends this week.

Clarissa Hobbs is a divorced mature-age lady, and has grandkids because she married so young, but she doesn’t look like a granny. Clarissa’s hair is ash-blonde, not grey, and her face has character lines rather than wrinkles. She dresses in simple, elegant suits and keeps fit by playing racquetball at the local gym, which is where she met her boyfriend, a handsome silver-haired lawyer.

Clarissa is from the South in America, but now she lives in Los Angeles. She comes from a rich family, although her family lost their money when she was about my age.

Tonight, Clarissa is doing one of her pro bono cases, which means that she’s helping a poor person by handling their case for free. In this case, Clarissa is defending a young black man named Trell. He’s a gang member, and Clarissa knows he’s no angel. She’s helping him for two reasons. Number one, she thinks he’s innocent. Number two, Trell’s father has been on Death Row since he was a baby, so he’s had a rough start in life.

Trell has been accused of arson and murder. A fire broke out in a local convenience store, killing the owner who lived upstairs. The prosecution says that Trell set the fire as revenge because the owner accused him of shoplifting. The prosecution doesn’t have any physical evidence, but they do have an eyewitness. The eyewitness is Mrs Crabtree, an old lady who lives across the street from the shop. Mrs Crabtree was sleeping, and says she was woken up by the noise from the fire and saw Trell running away from the building.

Clarissa works out a strategy to attack the credibility of Mrs Crabtree, who is white. Clarissa, when she cross-examines Mrs Crabtree, casts doubt that Mrs Crabtree can tell one black man from another by asking Mrs Crabtree to describe Trell’s features.

‘Well, he’s black,’ Mrs Crabtree says.

‘And how would you describe the features of that gentleman over there,’ Clarissa asks, pointing to a black court officer.

‘Well . . . he’s . . . black,’ Mrs Crabtree says, squinting and looking flustered. You can hear a few people in the courtroom laughing quietly.

‘Can you be more specific, Mrs Crabtree?’ Clarissa says, with exaggerated patience.

Mrs Crabtree splutters and stammers.

‘Mrs Crabtree, are you
sure
it was Trell Anderson you saw running from that burning building?’

Mrs Crabtree turns red. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ she squeals indignantly. ‘Are you casting aspersions on my character?’

‘No, Mrs Crabtree,’ Clarissa replies acidly. ‘I’m not casting aspersions of any sort. I am questioning your attitudes toward African-Americans, the reliability of your memory, and the accuracy of your eyesight.’ Clarissa turns to the judge. ‘No further questions, Your Honour,’ she says.

Of course, Clarissa wins the case. She always does.

Even so, Clarissa isn’t overjoyed. ‘I have a feeling I’m going to be representing Trell again someday,’ Clarissa says grimly, as she snaps her briefcase shut.

After the episode ends, there’s the usual five minutes of ads. A model strides down a dark alley and knocks on a door. When the door opens, she pulls off her dress so she’s wearing nothing but lacy red and black underthings. ‘Ripper,’ a voice whispers, as she steps into the darkened house. Then the screen goes black and
Ripper Intimates
is displayed in red type.

I switch off the TV when a McCain’s frozen food commercial comes on. I hate that part at the end where they say, ‘Ah, McCain’s, you’ve done it a-GAIN’. One night, that commercial was the last thing I saw before I went to bed, and I heard it rolling through my brain about a hundred times before I could get to sleep.

I climb the stairs, put on my pyjamas, and climb into bed.

Ripperrr
, the TV voice purrs.

‘Ripper!’
Daddy used to say, if something really pleased him. ‘
Ripper got me best patch,’ says Ernie.

I jerk awake, run to the light switch and turn on the light. It takes me a few minutes to calm down. I pull out a book out from under my bed.
Georges Sand: A Woman’s Life Writ Large.
It’s too advanced for me to understand. Or maybe it’s just boring. That’s the best kind of book to read if you’re trying to go to sleep. I still haven’t figured out why a woman is named Georges, or why George has an ‘s’ on the end, or why it’s ‘writ’ instead of ‘written’. I put the book away, turn off the light, close my eyes, and think
sand, sand, sand, sand, sand, sand
, until I fall asleep.

Chapter 9

Today, instead of asking me lots of questions, Lyyssa has given me a notebook. ‘You might want to use it to write down your feelings. You know, like a journal or diary.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the notebook. It’s spiral-bound with two hundred pages. I like it, even though I know it’s another one of Lyyssa’s techniques to get me to tell her things. I’m glad she gave me a regular notebook, instead of some twee little pink book with ‘My Secret Diary’ written on the front in fancy letters, and held shut by some tiny metal lock that anyone could break. Karen was looking at one like that at the two-dollar shop in Westgardens Metro like she wanted to buy it, but Bindi and Cinnamon made fun of her so she put it back. For once, I had to agree with Bindi and Cinnamon. I hate cutesy, phony things like that. They’re embarrassing.

‘You’ll need a pen, too,’ Lyyssa says, opening the supply cupboard and giving me a choice of four new pens. There’s a black fine point, a black roller ball, a blue ballpoint stick pen, and a blue gel ink pen with a rubber grip. I pick the one with the rubber grip.

Lyyssa says I can stay and talk if I like, or we can skip today’s session if I prefer.

‘I don’t really have anything to talk about. Is it okay if we skip the session?’

Lyyssa seems a little disappointed, but she says that’s fine and lets me go. I take the notebook back to my room and sit on my bed for a few minutes, admiring the crisp, unspoiled white pages. I know I don’t have to worry about hiding it. Lyyssa may be a stickybeak, but she’s also a fanatic about ‘respecting boundaries’. Just the same, I decide I’ll keep it underneath my mattress.

There’s a space on the front of the notebook to write your name. But since Len Russell isn’t my real name, I don’t bother.

I think about what I want to write in the notebook. Something has been floating in the back of my mind all day, bothering me, distracting me. I try to put my finger on what it is. I sit quietly for a few minutes, and then I remember. It was something I was thinking about last night before I fell asleep. I pick up my pen and start writing.

It’s Saturday. A girlfriend of Daddy’s is here, not one I’ve seen before. Now that she’s curled her hair and put on all her makeup she doesn’t have anything to do, so she’s sitting in a lounge chair looking bored. I’m playing Milk Jug with our dog Reggie. Milk Jug is his favourite game. You take an empty plastic milk jug by the handle and Reggie jumps up and sinks his teeth into it. Then you play tug-o-war, trying to pull the jug toward you as Reggie pretend-growls and pulls in the opposite direction. Reggie could pull you off your feet if he really wanted to, but he’s smart enough to know that doing that would ruin the game.

‘Aren’t you afraid to let her play with a pit bull?’

I don’t know why she’s so concerned about me playing with the dog. She didn’t care when I burned my hand on the kettle earlier.

‘Reggie’s a staffie cross, not a pit bull.’ Daddy’s watching the cricket on TV and doesn’t bother looking at the lady when he talks to her. He talks to the lady like he talks to all of them, like she’s kind of stupid and not really worth talking to.

‘Aren’t you afraid he’ll bite her?’

‘He’s a sook,’ Daddy says, and turns up the sound.

‘Don’t you think you should get him de-sexed?’ The lady raises her voice to be heard over the TV.

Daddy hits the mute button, sets his feet on the floor and looks directly at the lady. If she doesn’t shut up after Daddy does this, then she really is stupid. ‘A dog like that has two purposes in life: to fight, and to root. You take both those things away, he’ll go crazy.’

Then Daddy turns the sound back on and puts his feet back up on the coffee table.

Once I’ve finished writing, I read what I’ve written. Then I close the notebook and put it under my mattress.