8
THAT BOY H
e pokes his tongue in the gap like a worm breaking through soil, wiggling away. “Neat alright,” I say. “Make sure you put it under your pillow tonight.” The talk of money mopped up the last few tears quick smart. Now he’s brimming with energy again. “Can I go back?” “Only if your brother goes,” I say. Jack grew bored of the bridge a few years ago, they always do. Who knows maybe he’ll get off his phone for a bit. “Everyone is still down there.” “I said only if your brother goes.” The last five weeks I’ve been here on the couch, grazing Netflix and scrolling on my phone. Never fully committed to either. I walk at nights, eat what my old man used to call “rabbit food” and I take the pills. It’s hard work. The boat has been begging to get on the lake. Not to mention all the Lion Reds I’ve missed at the pub. Doctors’ orders. Ra’s back two minutes later. He’s doing that walk, the concrete feet shuffle with his chin bolted to his
collar bone. Dark as an almond already and it’s not even Christmas. “I’m not going,” I say. “Please Dad?” “Might be good for you to stay outta the sun for a bit. You don’t want leathery skin like your old man, eh?” He shifts his eyes to the window. “If you were at work, I’d just go back anyway.” Mind reader, and he’s not wrong. The boy could talk a pipi out of its shell. I can hear Angela already, And you let him go back down after losing a bloody tooth? “Tell your mother you wiggled it out.” He knows where this is going, and he clamps his lips but can’t quite hide the smile. Light exercise, that’s what the doc said. “I’ll grab my togs.” Then he shows me that big gap between his teeth again. Towels slung over our shoulders, we walk on the grass to keep our jandals from sticking to the road.
As a kid we used to look out for tourist buses parked up there. It meant the spring would be full of coins, and we’d take turns diving down deep enough to bring on a headache. We’d surface with coins from around the world, but it was the New Zealand two dollar we prized above all else.
A short story by J.P. Pomare Illustration by Isabelle Russell
It’s only about a k. But Ra skips ahead, then waits, then skips ahead. Soon we see them through the heat shimmer coming off the tarseal. Brown bodies laid out on the grass. As a kid we used to look out for tourist buses parked up there. It meant the spring would be full of coins, and we’d take turns diving down deep enough to bring on a headache. We’d surface with coins from around the world, but it was the New Zealand two dollar we prized above all else. Then off to the Caltex that doubled as the fish and chip shop, to warm up with a bag of blood’n’guts, extra chicken salt. “They’re still there,” he says with a bubble of excitement bursting in his voice. Six boys get up off the grass. “Kia ora Mr Ruatara.” “Eh fellas, thought I’d come down to teach you boys how to manu.” “Eh!” “Tu meke.” We toss our towels down, and step from our jandals. Marching on to the bridge. There’s a crackle of anticipation, passing between them like static electricity. Climbing up on the rail, it’s higher than I remember, and my balance is worse. Light exercise. The old ticker barely registers it at all. Then I leap. A moment of flight. Ice and pain. Na, not pain. It’s something else entirely. I hit the sandy bottom but not before the water compresses around me and surges up with that old familiar boom. I surface to howls of chaoo. The current pulling me into the shade of the bridge. Then comes the next concussive splash, then the next as one after the other they throw themselves over the rail. Last of all, Ra hits the water. He’s the skinniest of the lot but he sends a perfect spire of water back up. “Tu meke fullas,” I call over the train of boys crawling along the current to the shallows. Towelling off, one boy picks up his phone. “Go again?” he says. “I’ll chuck it on Tik Tok.” “Tik Tok?” I say, making a face. I catch Ra staring at the angry pink line running the length of my sternum. I realise it’s the first time he’s seen it. The others all stare. No one says anything. “Tough scar eh?” I say. “Ra said you had a heart attack.” “Yeah, I wouldn’t recommend it either. Alright one more.” “Do a Staple this time?” “Na, a gorilla?” Then we’re back on the bridge, a phone pointed in my direction. I can see why Ra’s campaign to get one himself has ramped up the last couple of months. “You first,” I say to Ra. He climbs up, as graceful as any gymnast. The bar is wet beneath his feet, easy to see how he slipped. This time he leaps so high he seems to hover for a moment, he folds and turns then hits the water. The splash clears the rail. “Oosh,” I say. Ra’s head pokes out of the water. “How big Dad?” “Barely made a splash,” I call. The boys laugh, leaning out to see him drifting in the shade of the bridge. “Naaa,” he calls. “Barely made a splash.” “Nice pin-drop Ra.” Then quietly, to the others, I say, “Actually pretty big, eh. He’s got the gift that boy.” “Na watch this then,” one says. They all jostle, bump shoulders, pull at each other to be the next one in and I watch on as their heads emerge one at a time to look up. “Was it big?” “Was mine big ow?” “Oh yeah,” I say. ‘Bloody big alright.” Then I climb up, balancing on the rail with both my feet beneath me and the blue sky above and when I jump I feel for just a second like I might never come back down.
