90 Packets of Instant Noodles (19 page)

Afterwards, Dad drives directly to the Rose Hotel.

‘It's 11a.m., Dad.'

‘I know, Joel. This is ... an emergency, put it that way.'

‘I'm under-age.'

‘Not when you're with your old man. You can come in with me.'

‘Yeah, but they won't serve me.'

‘They'll serve
me.
And you can have a ... a Coke.'

I look at him. ‘Thanks.'

Inside, it's warm and smells of pub. While Dad goes to the bar, I check out the other dudes who are here. One guy is playing pool against himself, there's an older couple sitting in the corner, and a couple of middle-aged guys are having an early lunchtime beer.

Dad skolls his EB like he's just returned from the Gobi Desert.

‘Aaaaah.'

‘Yeah, keep it down, will ya?' I mumble into my crappy flat Coke.

‘Sorry.' He draws in a long, deep breath. ‘Thank God that's over. Well, nearly over. He's not going to get off lightly, by the sound of it.' After a pause, he says, ‘Are you travelling okay?'

I manage a nod.

He puts his middy down on the coaster. ‘Things will get better, you know.'

I don't look up. Condensation dribbles down the side of my glass. ‘Things can only get better from where we're sitting, Dad.'

He tries to hold back a grin and grabs my arm. ‘True, Joel. True.'

Sometimes, when I'm sitting around, I think back to the shack. Those few weeks after the court case ... they gave me time to sort of reclaim the place after Craggs had been there. It felt good to do it my way again.

I never scored any more lifts along the road. I guess the crew in town couldn't forgive me. But Mrs Pritchard was incredible. When I caught the bus back to Perth, she came out of her shop with a steak and mushroom pie for me and wished me luck.

Bella kept the faith and has been writing since she went to New Zealand. She's sent me a couple of photos of her standing in front of mountains, with a woolly beanie pulled over her head and a snowboard wedged under her arm. She even reckons the private school isn't that bad. But her letters are kind of newsy and breezy these days. The Bella–Joel
thing:
it's gone, but, hey, no surprises there. I realised I just had to get with the program. So I let it go. I let her go. And it's all right.

Sometimes I feel a hundred years old when I think of the fuck-ups so far, and other times they make my heart kick all over again, like the thought of me and Craggs running through the streets in the early days, our footsteps in our ears, trying not to laugh, trying not to drop any of the gear we never even really wanted.

It all seems so long ago, all that.

The judge took into account a few things, like the truth-in-sentencing laws, which meant Craggs's sentence was reduced by one-third. He got seven years, but after truth-in-sentencing it was reduced to four years and seven months. No parole, but apparently the lawyer might appeal that. Four and a half years. It could have been so much worse. He's written a couple of times and it's been pretty evil reading, me sitting at home while he's out there in the sticks doing hard labour. It gives you some serious perspective, that's for sure. It's awful to say, but there's nothing like seeing how bad things can be to make you appreciate what you have.

Craggs is doing school out there. He's a year behind, but given everything he sounds all right, you know? He sounds okay.

Sometimes I think back to when we first met, when he snatched Mario Ripelli after school that day and everyone thought he was funny, and I try to figure out when it changed. But you can't separate things, there's no start and finish, it's not a straight line. Things go forward and back, cut in and out, and the parts blur into one another, they blur together until you can't separate anything; the good and the bad will always seep towards each other.

Very yin–yang, Bella, right? Very yin–yang.

It's hard to believe it now, but I often find myself missing the shack. Having that space to myself, hiking down to the swimming hole for ball-crunching plunges, Foxy's visits. On my last day there I emptied all my snacks out into a pile for Foxy on the kitchen floor, knowing he'd have a Last Supper on me. Weetbix crumbs, stale biscuits, the works. He was a good little mate. And the letters from Dad, from Bella—I've kept them all. Those freezing nights when I lay in bed with the crazy weird noises outside and thoughts of Bella. Being out in the world on my own.

Just Joel.

I reckon I've got a much better handle on him these days. I don't think about ‘which Joel' anymore. There's only ever been one Joel. I can't even remember now why it got so fucking complicated back there, to be honest.

Just Joel.
Simple.

I most wish to acknowledge the generous collaborative effort behind this book. Everyone involved has made a significant contribution to the final product. Cate Sutherland did two things: she took a leap of faith in taking it on; and she shaped the loose early drafts (and the loose early Joel) into something with spine. Amanda Curtin, editor and writer extraordinaire, pulled me up—in the nicest of ways—and drew this thing together. Designer Allyson Crimp turned a ratty manuscript into a visual treat. My loving thanks to Georgia Richter for her involvement in the original mouldy version of this book, direct from the cloud forest of Costa Rica, and then every new draft every year thereafter. More importantly, though, I thank her for her generous, shoulder-to-shoulder sharing of so many pieces of writing, editing and life. My thanks in spades to Stew. I hope he can see the fruits of our labour; the rewards of his bold and brave and crazy vision. Enormous thanks are due also to Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown for her stamina in representing me. Any attempts to thank Van Ikin are feeble given his enormous early support, influence and guidance—and his belief in me. Mum, Dad and Mike, your pride in me is all the reason in the world, though, having said that, I apologise for some of the contents of this book. And thanks, Mike, for your generous access into the minds and lives of the kids in your classroom. Thank you Fiona, Pete and Mazz, for your enthusiasm and support. And my little ones, Jerry and Pippa: you two will need to show me your driver's licences before I give you access to this little number.

Quote from Carl Sandburg, from ‘Prairie',
Cornhuskers
(1918).

Lines from ‘Take It or Leave It' (© Casablancas, Warner Chappell Music) used with permission.

Quote from William Blake, from ‘Proverbs of Hell',
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
(1790–93).