The Invisible Hero (9 page)

There seems to be a theme of money this week. At home, Dad was upset with Mum for overspending, so he's frozen her account. He says she needs to budget better and that for the next two weeks she'll have to come to him every day to ask for money and she'll have to justify her spending. Of course he didn't say this in front of me, but I heard Mum crying on the phone to her sister. In primary I used to feel like Mum's protector, but as I get older I see more and more why Dad gets so frustrated with her. She's a very dependent person. She'd sink without Dad's strong guidance.

And then when Dad and I were watching the news, we heard the government had given themselves big raises in their salaries – an extra ten thousand a year, while coming down hard on Centrelink cheats. Dad explained that politicians work darn hard and are away from their families for most of the year. ‘Those men (and some women) sacrifice an ordinary home life. They deserve some compensation for their strong sense of duty to our country.'
And with regard to the welfare cheats, Dad said, ‘Our taxes again, son. I'm prepared to have a safety net for the desperate, but those cheats are trampling over decent people's faces. You have to be very tough on the ones way down society's rung. Give them an inch and they'll take a mile.'

That Macca is at it again. This fining thing is a lousy trick. He couldn't care less about charities. And he's picking on the girls mostly. Me, Imogen and Raphaela. Us girls have to get stronger. At lunch today, we talked about going to see Mrs Canmore.

Imogen said, ‘Is she a bit too gentle to handle those thugs?' But Raphaela said, ‘I'm starting to see that being gentle takes a lot of strength.'

In the end, we agreed that if things got any worse with Macca, we'd speak to Mrs Canmore. She'd stick up for us, alright. But would that just make it worse? Drive Macca into nastier, sneakier behaviour. At least, Macca's creepy behaviour has given me an idea for my ‘Heroes and Villains' assignment. I want to find myself a strong woman hero – someone who knows how to handle the Maccas of this world.

Im lerning farst that to stan up for yor rites is not simpl. Las Friday I got anotha afta scol detenshon for rfusing to writ in this stupid jurnal. Fer enuf but wen I got home lat the second tim Nan wasn't ther. In al my lif she was always ther for me usully in the kichen coking sumthing that waftd its delishus smels rite to the frunt dor or siting on the vranda her mending barskt next to her sowing butons or darning soks. Thanks to Nan's hard werk Im stil abel to wair Pop's sherts and soks and hes been ded sinc two yers befor I was born. He fel down ded from a hart atak wen he was at werk in the box factry. Wen I lok at her hands al swoln and twistd from hard werk and her artheritis I sumtimes wont to kis them. They ar the hans of an angle.

But ive wanded from the point. Nan wosnt ther. I felt so alon and sort of abandond. Shes always always wating for me to com home. I calt out Nan! Nan! but no arnser. Then I lokd out the bak dor and stil cudnt see anything but wen I calt out agen I thort I cud hair Nan's vois from way doun the botm of the gardn wair the frut tres are. Philip! Philip! Help!

I ran doun the bak so farst and ther ner the vege pach an behin the lemon tree was Nan lieing on the grownd as crumpled as a rag dol and strait away I culd see she had done sumthing to her foot. Her angkl was swollen and blu. She had slipt on some skwishy lemons that wer on the grownd. Wen she saw me she startd crying and I sware that's not hapnd oftn with Nan. And she lifts her arm up to me lik sumone drouning wonting to be rescud and I see she has a dep gash down her arm. And I sore how her
skin has becum lik tishu paper. Its old lady skin. Nan had ben ling ther in the colt for hows. Evrythings okay Nan I sed yor saf now but wen I tride to lift her I cudnt. Nan is not a big women but her ful wate was to much for me.

We wer in mor then a spot of bothr. I wontd to call the ambleanc but Nan sed she new it was just a sprane and not to bothr those por overwerkd peple. The naybor on one sid of us Fred Clark is wot Nan cals a cranky old bugr. We think a cupl of yers bak he poisond Nans litl Hiland terea, Stuart, becos he usd to complane abowt his barking. And on the otha sid the naybors hav a fish and chip shop and come hom lat evry nite. I tride ringn Mr Sing but it wos on ansa fone I mus of ben paneking becos I jus cudnt find our other soop nite frens in Nan's telfon bok. So I got a blankt and sumhow got it under Nan and I dragd her up the lorn to the bak dor and then I got Nan under her arm pits and pult her thru the dor. Thank godnes for al that wud chopping. I mite lok skinny but im storng. Nan wos panting adn groning and I worit that she mite hav a hart atak lik Pop. I left her on the kichen flor and put a pillow under her hed and anotha blankt over her becos I now that shok for an old person is dangous and I got her a hot cup of tee but that wos a porblm becos I was scard shed bern herself evn if I held the cup. Then I had a brane wav and got my plastik scol drink botl that has a stror thru the lid and I put the tee in that for Nan to suk on.

I lokt at that ankel al pufy and angry purpl and it worit me. How was Nan to know if it was jus a sprane and wots mor she was in shok and cudnt mak a rashnl decishon. I left her liing ther and went to the hal were the fone is and diled OOO. Then I went bak
to Nan and sed Im the man of this hous Nan and you are going to horspital and I expectd Nan to get cros but al she sed was How? And I sed by ambleanc and she sed maybe that's a god idear and she lay bak on the pillow and shut her eyes. Then she ses why wer you hom so late and I new I cudnt tel her the trooth about my dtenshon becos it wod wory her sik. So I ses I stayd bak for sport and in my hart I new this is sort of tru becos its sport for mista kwale to mak me the larfing stok of the clas.

Just as wel I did al this becos it terns out Nan has a small fracsha just above her ankel. Becos theres only me at home theyv kept her in horspital until this afternoon. But al this has hapend becos of my afta scol detenshon. So thats why Im writing my page. Id lik to stand up for my rites but thats hard if otha peple derpend on you. I ned to be home for Nan wen she cums out of horspital.

So here you are mista kwale. And you carnt tel me this is not revelant becos its al abowt the vilans who mak lif tuf for avrage peple. Lifes ful of them rite under your nose.

Our friend Dill has been a full-on little weasel. It's been a while since I wrote something decent in this journal – my mind was focused on preparing for a science test (for which I scored 99%!). In the meantime, Dugan took a couple of days off school and claimed it was because his Nan was sick. Clearly he lost the nerve to face us and needed time out. On Wednesday, when I tried to fine him for his absences, he said he had no money. Cheung searched his pockets and his bag. No luck. Then De Grekh had a brainwave and told Dill if he didn't turn up the next day with his fine money, we'd have to punish him.

Next day, Dugan is away again. When he turned up at school today, Dugan claimed he was away because his Nan needed nursing again. By now I'm getting seriously irritated by this scrawny guy's evasive tactics. Once again, no money for his fine. ‘Nan's pension hasn't come through.' Oh, diddums.

We're behind the toilet block – a pretty dark area that no one likes to be in, especially during winter.

‘Cheung,' I say. ‘What do we do with this wimp?'

Cheung pushes up chest to chest with Dill who starts backing away.

‘We accept payment in kind,' chips in de Grekh.

‘What do you mean “in kind”?' asks Cheung, still with his face just centimetres from Dill's.

‘Dill's kind to us,' jokes de Grekh. ‘He gives us something instead of money.'

‘Good one!' I laugh, ‘Like what?'

‘Like his lunch,' says de Grekh, ‘Go get your lunchbox, Nanna's boy.'

We score some home-made choc-chip biscuits and hand Dill the leftover cheese sandwich.

‘Your Nan's a half-decent cook,' I say as I bite into a biscuit. ‘Make sure we get more of this home cooking.'

Dill's pretty annoying. He doesn't get all scared and shaky. He stays real polite but cold.

‘I was the one who cooked this lot of biscuits. My Nan's too crook to bake at the moment. And I'm too busy to do any more biscuit making for the time being.'

The weasel is trying to stand up to me. He's as good as saying he's going on strike. But it doesn't work. It just gets up my you-know-what. Today when we check out his lunchbox, he's as good as his word – no choc-chip biscuits, just a sandwich, so I give the sandwich the old heave-ho into the toilet.

We make sure Dill pays for his insolence during sport. It's basketball. First off, de Grekh, who's really quick with his ball skills, makes a feint at passing the ball to Dill and then passes it beyond him to Cheung. This goes on for a while. When this fun wears off, we give Dill his final lesson for the day. He's quite fast at running, so a well-aimed foot sends him sprawling and up to sickbay with a gashed knee.

I'm just trying to get Dill to be normal – you know, toughen him up a bit. He's a weirdo. He wears these old man shirts. He opens the classroom door for teachers, for God's sake. Naturally, no one wants to spend a lunchtime with him. The few who have tried say he talks about the dumbest things – vegetable gardens,
how much wood he's chopped on the weekend, the black and white Fred Astaire movies he watches with his Nan, the book tapes he listens to. I mean, you don't admit to this sort of stuff. He really needs a man's influence. I read this great quote from Washington Irving (whoever he is) on the internet the other day: ‘Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above them.' I'm helping Dill rise above the misfortune he has.

I am a villain. I write this on the page so that I have to face it. I see the dirt that gets forked out to Dugan and I think to myself
It would be me if it wasn't Dugan. Thank goodness it's him.
I don't deserve to have been named after Ataturk.

As if I don't stick out enough. Dark olive skin. Black hair. Big nose. Maybe it's my imagination, but each time some moron of a terrorist gets onto the news, I sense people looking at me a bit funny. I feel like I need to hang a sign round my neck: Moslem by culture, but my family is not that religious – we just celebrate special days, the same way lots of people celebrate Easter and Christmas. I'm not going to make a big deal of trying to explain myself. I stay quiet.