A Weekend with Oscar Read online

  The piercing beep of the alarm clock jolts me awake. I force myself to get out of bed, inwardly cursing whoever decided that school would start at 8.30 am.

  I tread barefoot and shivering down the hallway to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and glance at the bleary-eyed guy in the mirror. Medium height. A little on the skinny side. Light brown hair.

  I dress for school, my uniform stiff and uncomfortable after the two-week winter break, most of which I spent nose-deep in books.

  The kitchen is quieter than it used to be. I still notice this daily, even though it’s been nine months since Dad died. He always listened to the morning news.

  I fight the familiar tug of grief. If I gave into it, I might go back to bed and never get up.

  “Hi, Jamie,” says Oscar.

  “Morning, bro. Morning, Mum.”

  “Good morning, Jamie.”

  “Hey, Oscar,” I say, “your shirt is on the wrong way around.”

  It used to be Dad who made sure Oscar’s hair was brushed and his clothes were on properly. Now it’s all on Mum.

  “Take it off and put it on again,” says Mum, mashing egg for Oscar’s sandwich.

  Oscar ignores her. He’s crouching by the sink, tying and untying his shoelaces.

  “I can make his lunch,” I say. But I already know she’ll refuse my help.

  “No need,” Mum says, a stoic expression on her face.

  A part of me wishes she’d let me help. A bigger part is glad she won’t. The mornings are rushed enough as it is. I grab a pile of books from the kitchen table and cram them into my schoolbag.

  “I can give you a lift after the bus leaves,” Mum offers as she wraps Oscar’s sandwich.

  “That’s okay,” I say, through a mouthful of toast, “I’d rather walk.” Which isn’t exactly true, but I don’t want to be an added burden on Mum. Besides, who knows how long it will be till Oscar is ready. The bus that will take him to New Haven Special School will wait for him, but my maths teacher, Mrs Malone, will not wait for me.

  “Bye, bro,” I say, holding my hand out to high-five Oscar.

  He lets go of the shoelace and reaches up to high-five me back. “Twenty days till my birthday,” he says.

  Mum smiles as she zips up his bag. “What would you like to do for your birthday?”

  “A party,” says Oscar. “A big – Bye Jamie,” he calls as I head for the door.

  I sprint down sleepy streets, past single and double-storey houses with neat front gardens.

  The traffic thickens when I hit the main road. Hampton Street shopping strip is on my right, but most of the shops don’t open till ten. I head left, towards Milton College, and reach the school with one minute to spare.

  The massive bulk of Ethan Chandler is blocking the doorway to the classroom, forcing me to push my way past. He snarls at me and I glare right back, but our mutual hostility is so automatic I almost don’t notice it.

  I sit down at the same desk I sat at last term. Dan Nguyen, my best mate since we bonded over a mutual but fleeting obsession with spiders on the first day of primary school, slides his short, skinny frame into the seat beside me.

  “Almost drowned in the holidays,” he says, a little breathless.

  “What! Why?”

  “My marks were below C-level.”

  I let out a groan.

  The class falls silent as Mrs Malone enters. She does a quick tour of the room collecting homework.

  “Where’s yours?” she asks Dan.

  “I ate it,” he says. “You said it was a piece of cake.”

  A few of us chuckle.

  Mrs Malone rolls her eyes, unamused. She writes some complex equations on the board and starts to explain them.

  Ten minutes into the lesson, there’s a knock on the door and a girl comes in. She’s slim and delicate with honey-blonde hair that reaches her shoulders.

  She looks around the room and our eyes meet briefly. For the first time since Dad died, something stirs inside me – a sense of excitement I’d almost forgotten.

  “Is this Year 10 accelerated?” Her voice is soft and tinkling.

  “Yes,” says Mrs Malone, her face brightening at the prospect of another pupil. “This is accelerated maths.”

  In Year 10 accelerated, we do Year 12 maths and two other Year 12 subjects of our choice, as well as two Year 11 subjects and Year 10 English. That way, by the time we reach Year 12, we can take university subjects for extra points.

  “Are you Zara Bennett?” Mrs Malone asks.

  The girl nods.

  “Good. Glad you managed to find the room. It’s a bit of a maze, this school. Take a seat, Zara.”

  Every desk in the room is taken except for the one that’s right beside Chandler. As Zara sits down beside him, Chandler looks her up and down, his gaze brazen. I have a strong urge to hurl him out of the window.

  In my peripheral vision, I see dark-haired Felicity Taylor with her cynical smile. She’s watching me watching Chandler. Strange to think I once had a fleeting crush on her . . .

  I turn my attention back to Zara.

  She catches me staring. I give her a slight, embarrassed smile, then look away.

  It’s hard to concentrate on maths. I keep glancing at Zara.

  After the lesson, I dawdle outside the classroom door. But it’s Mrs Malone, not Zara, who comes out first. “How are things at home, Jamie?” The teachers always speak to me as if they’ve been given explicit instructions to be kind. While I’m telling Mrs Malone that we’re managing fine, Zara slips past silently and disappears.

  At lunchtime, Dan and I head to the oval, ignoring the cold.

  “How did your break go?”

  “Torture,” says Dan. “My mum practically locked me in my room. At least I wasn’t actually handcuffed to my desk.”

  I shake my head, not sure how much he’s exaggerating. “What did you do in there for all those hours?”

  “Mostly practised my stand-up. I’ve been working on a new routine.”

  “Can’t wait to see it.”

  Dan’s a regular at Platform 15 ¾, a monthly open mic event for under eighteens.

  “So, did you manage to get any studying done?”

  “Almost none,” he says. “Luckily, my mum has no idea. As long as I’m in my room, she thinks I’m studying.”

  “She’s going to realise at some point.”

  “Yeah, don’t rub it in.” He lets out a sigh. “God, I hate the idea of accelerated learning. I mean, what’s the rush? What the hell is the point?”

  I used to think there wasn’t one, but that was before Dad died. Now, I’m aiming to get into a top university, finish studying and get a well-paying job as soon as possible to help with the family’s finances. I know Dad had life insurance and Mum did get some money after he died, but it won’t last forever, especially since she decided to use a huge chunk of it on my education.

  But while I actually like the accelerated class, Dan has been complaining about it all year.

  “Why don’t you ask to swap classes?” I suggest.

  “You know my mum. She’d never agree.”

  “You can’t know that for sure.”

  Dan ignores this. “So, my new routine will focus on my daily life,” he says, changing the subject, “but also on my ethnicity, because that’s mainly what people seem to see. Can I run some of it by you?”

  “Go for it, mate.”

  “Hi, I’m Dan. I was born in Melbourne and even people who know that ask where I’m from. What they mean is, what’s your ancestry? ‘Vietnamese,’ I tell them. ‘Hide your dogs and cats,’ I say.”

  The way Dan delivers this line is heavily accented and over the top. I crack up laughing.

  “People find it hard to bel
ieve I’m actually vegetarian. Now, this isn’t the 1970s,” he continues. “You’d think people would know better by now, but yesterday, this skip came up to me at school and said, ‘Will you do my homework?’ ‘Why should I do your homework?’ I asked. ‘You’re Asian,’ he said. ‘You like homework.’”

  “I’m still polishing the rest.”

  “It’s good,” I say.

  For the rest of lunchtime, Dan and I laugh at each other’s jokes regardless of whether or not they’re funny.

  When I get home from school, Oscar is sitting at the kitchen table drinking the spicy almond milk Mum makes him each day. His face lights up when he sees me.

  “Apple cake?” asks Mum. “There’s one freshly made.”

  “There’s been a lot of cake around lately,” I say, as I take a slice.

  “Baking is a kind of therapy for me.” This is the closest she’s ever come to mentioning Dad.

  The cake sticks in my throat. I want to say, I miss him too. But I can’t bring myself to talk about Dad. We seem to have an unspoken agreement not to mention him.

  But that doesn’t mean we don’t think about him. I’m not sure about Oscar though. He doesn’t talk about Dad and inuendos go over his head.

  I push the remaining cake around my plate, unsure how to dispel the tension of everything we never say.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Oscar.

  “Nothing,” Mum says firmly, eyeing the clock. “Time for swimming, Oscar.”

  Oscar’s the busiest person I know.

  After they’ve left, the house goes quiet and I know it will stay that way till they get home. Dad won’t be walking in the door like he used to, saying, “Time to wind down.” He won’t start playing his guitar and singing in his rich, deep baritone.

  I go to my room, where the blinds are still down. I open them – just enough to let the light in. My window overlooks the one-and-a-half metre stretch of grass between our house and the neighbour’s fence, which, like the rest of the garden, is now overgrown and full of weeds.

  I open my books and soon I’m immersed in the events leading up to the Second World War.

  At 6 pm, after an hour of homework, I head off to Centenary Park Basketball Club, where I’ve been coaching the adult all-abilities basketball team – sixteen and overs – every Monday afternoon for over a year. I first started helping out at the club because I knew how badly they needed volunteers, but now it gets me out of our too-quiet house and away from my desk. Stops me moping in my room.

  And I like being useful.

  I high-five Michael Vincent, who’s been coaching the team for longer than me, and look around for Tammy, the schoolteacher who comes to help out when she can. When Tammy can’t make it, we try to get Lucy, Michael’s older sister, because we need a decent number of volunteers.

  The team members trickle in. The youngest is sixteen and the oldest sixty-five. While they differ in their disabilities, most are mildly disabled both physically and intellectually.

  We start them off walking round the court, then jogging from one end to the other. Then they take it in turns to dribble the ball. Twenty minutes in, we line them up, and they each have a turn at shooting the ball. Every one of them gets it in the net. Michael, Tammy and I applaud.

  A few of their parents are sitting on the sidelines and they too cheer loudly, not just for their own child but for every player.

  “Fuck! Fuck off!” Gordon has Tourette syndrome and can’t control what comes out of his mouth.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Take a deep breath, Gordon.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Justin pushing Samantha. Michael is there in a heartbeat, steering him away, while Tammy makes sure Samantha’s okay.

  “Okay, nothing to look at here.” Tammy’s voice carries across the court. “Back to shooting goals.”

  Later, Michael divides them into teams. “Keep Justin away from Samantha,” I quietly remind him as we start a game.

  “Yep, onto it,” Michael answers.

  When the players’ parents come to collect them, I can’t help thinking, They have a dad and I don’t. I don’t begrudge them their fathers; I just miss my own. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it, the fact that he’s never coming back. I can’t let my sadness show. I have to be cheerful when I say goodbye to the team. I hug each one in turn, except for the few who don’t like hugs. They get a slap on the back instead. As I smile and wave, I feel like I’m acting in a play.

  I’ll continue the act if I have to. I don’t want Mum to know how I’m feeling.

  When I get home, she’s so busy giving Oscar dinner and making sure he gets in the shower, she doesn’t really notice me.

  Once again, I bury myself in homework. It dulls the pain.

  I go to bed around eleven, but wake up thirsty a few hours later. I turn the light on in the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. That’s when I hear it. I tiptoe down the hallway to Mum’s bedroom. Her door is closed. There it is again – a muffled sob.

  Mum’s been putting on a brave face ever since Dad died, but this isn’t the first time I’ve heard her crying in her room when she thinks I’m asleep.

  Should I knock and go in, or go back to bed?

  I’m torn between wanting to give her privacy and wanting to comfort her. I understand her need to appear strong. Neither of us wants to burden the other with our grief. Or maybe it feels safer to keep it inside.

  I head back to my own room, careful not to make a sound. I’m ashamed to admit, even to myself, that sometimes I wish I could curl up in my mother’s arms and cry.

  Three nights of homework have paid off, because on Thursday Mrs Malone chooses me.

  “Jamie, can you fill Zara in on the maths we did in the first semester?” She says this across the room, so everyone hears.

  “Sure.” I aim for nonchalant and try not to betray the thump of excitement in my chest. Now I’ve got the perfect excuse to speak to Zara.

  Dan leans towards me and lowers his voice. “Can I borrow your homework?”

  “Sure. Did you manage to get any of the problems done?”

  “I would have, but I’ve already got problems of my own.” He gives me his trademark grin.

  “What? Oh!” I can’t help laughing. Mrs Malone scowls in our direction. When she looks away again, I slide my answers over to Dan.

  Zara comes up to me after class. Up close, she is even prettier than I realised. She has a cute smattering of freckles over her nose and her blue eyes are flecked with gold.

  We walk to the lockers together.

  “It must be tough,” I say, “moving mid-year.”

  Zara shrugs. “I didn’t have a choice. My dad had to move here for work.” My stomach clenches. It must show on my face. “Did I say something wrong?” she asks.

  “No.” I shake my head, look away. “It’s just . . . my dad died last year.” This is the first time I’ve said it out loud and saying it feels wrong, as if I’m somehow condoning his death.

  “I’m so sorry, Jamie.” She pauses, like she’s trying to work out what to say. “I can’t imagine how awful it must be to lose your dad. What was he like?”

  How do you capture a person in words? Dad was easygoing, tolerant. Hardly anything fazed him. He was a great father and very supportive of my mum. Fiercely protective of his family, especially of Oscar. Two or three times a year, he’d go overseas for a week or so. Mum coped fine on her own. And it was never for long. Ten days at most.

  Zara’s waiting for an answer.

  “He imported foreign foods,” I say.

  Zara watches my face and waits for me to elaborate.

  “I couldn’t have asked for a better dad.”

  I’m lost without him. And I miss him every single day.

  “He died unexpectedly,” I say. “He had a heart attack, on his way back from Hong Kong.” I don’t think I can talk about it a second longer, because it’s like opening a wound, each word making it a little deeper. “Do you want to come to my place after school to
go over the maths?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  I’m waiting for Zara at the school gates when Chandler walks by. I left my jacket at home and I’m rubbing my arms, trying to keep warm.

  “You look like shit, Anderson. What is it? Maths too hard for you?”

  I flip him the bird.

  “’Cos your brother’s a retard,” the jerk continues. “And you must have at least some identical genes.”

  I know this doesn’t merit a response, but if I say nothing, I feel I’m letting Oscar down. “My brother has Down syndrome. What’s your excuse?”

  Chandler smirks and doesn’t answer.

  The first time he called Oscar that, about four years ago, I shoved him so hard he actually fell. Biggest mistake of my life. It showed him I cared, so now he makes a habit of it.

  He’s smart enough to be in the accelerated class, so I assume he has a brain somewhere inside that thick skull of his. But how can someone brainy be so dumb?

  Jerks like him don’t deserve their intelligence.

  “It must be hard being part-retard,” Chandler says with a sneer.

  Zara joins me just after he leaves and I forget about Chandler.

  “It’s about a thirty-minute walk,” I say. Felicity Taylor hurries past and our eyes meet for a second before I look away.

  “I heard you used to hang out together,” Zara says. She’s been at this school exactly four days.

  “Good to know the Year 10 grapevine is in impeccable shape.”

  Zara laughs. “She’s pretty,” she says, watching Felicity walk ahead, dark hair bouncing behind her.

  Once, I would have agreed, but disliking someone changes the way you see them.

  “So, how’s your first week going?” I ask, as we walk down Hampton Street. I don’t want to waste another second on Felicity Taylor.

  “Better than expected,” Zara says. “I was kind of dreading it, but it’s been okay.”

  We fall into step, our feet tapping an upbeat rhythm on the footpath. There’s so much I want to know about her.

  “What subjects are you taking?” Schoolwork, really?

  But Zara’s phone rings before she has a chance to answer. “Sorry, Jamie. I have to take this.”