I Only Want Be With You

This is how we met, in violence.

We were playing tiggy one day, at school. You take the ball and spin it, and brand someone, the ball so wet, heavy and harsh, it hurts. In the game, you could do this to people and they wouldn't know till it hit them. Then everyone laughs. And everyone laughs nervous, so it won't hit them. Everyone is praying it'll be someone else. And when it hits whoever it is—someone with glasses, or fat, or thin—everyone laughs even louder, because it's not them.

This day, I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming about our head prefect who I can see: this prefect, I can't help myself, he's so handsome and each night I have this same dream; the school catches on fire and I rescue the head prefect and then alone, together, amo amas amat. Then I hear Lemmy four foot nothing, fatboy with legs so fat they rub together at the knees, and he says very low, whispering in that flat voice I get to know so well, without emphasis, without any emotion: let's brand the beanpole. Me. Five foot ten, aged thirteen.

I am fast, too fast: I am the champion sprinter in all the school, I am famous for fastness. So the ball skids past tearing open the air as it goes, hurtling past me, then into the creek.

I run now to get it, I am hot. Behind me I hear over the wet grass the heavy heartbeat poundbash of other footsteps rushing to get the ball so they can brand me again. I know now the ball will be wet: it will sting. But as I bend over the kikuyu forest, in among the stamens and tongues of green, I see this sandwich, just floating so innocent.

It has been luncheon sausage, and the bread, white, has turned into softsoft blotting paper, floating apart gently so it comes to pieces and gently nudges the turd floating beside it.

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My fingers close around the sandwich. I pick it up real gentle and careful so it won't fall apart and then I balance the soggy grey mass cupped inside my palm. I feel tendrils of power rushing down my arm, chill, cold as death. Boys shy away, stand still, panting inout inout scarletblood danger. I hold it high now and then I find fatboy and he's looking at me now, without an expression, I see this in a quick glimpse, like a photo, then beanpole yells to fatboy so loud everyone can hear, urgent, as if to catch the real ball with which I'm going to brand him forever, TAKE THIS FATBOY!

The sandwich flies through the air, disintegrating as it whirls, catching in its path all the power from the other boys whose eyes watch entranced, chanting, singing yelling in one rush of breath, an arrow of pleasure it's not them: BRAND HIM BRAND FATBOY BRAND FATBOY.

The sandwich splatters all across Fatboy's face. He stands there with it dripping and dropping, his face that frozen expressionless mask I get to know so well, when I know what it means. At the same time, his whole face, from his neck up, starts going deep bright red—the stain. Everyone laughs now, released, relieved it wasn't them that got hit, everyone is secretly pleased too it is fatboy who has this cruel laugh.

But Lemmy is not finished. He picks off a piece of the sandwich and fishes out the scarlet skin of the luncheon sausage and, holding it between his fingers like it's a delicacy, he opens his mouth, looking at Ken Johnston who is lying on the grass laughing with tears forcing through his lids going heeeeehhhhheeehhheehhh, like he's punctured and all his fear is coming out. 'Fatboy got hit,' Ken says over and over again, so glad it's not him. Lemmy goes M ... MMmmmm! as if it's the Maggi soup ad on TV, and we all stop so still because, just for one second, we believe it.

Then Lemmy opens his mouth, drops the luncheon sausage in, and we all go totally quiet watching him and he looks at all of us one by one as if he is remembering our faces for later retribution, and when we are all silent apart from Ken Johnston who is wheezing now, having an asthma attack of tears and nerves and joy, Lemmy finishes eating, licking his fingerpads delicately clean, and when he swallows I swear across the whole football field under that dirtysheet sky, you can hear us all swallow hard and dry, as if we are trying to swallow a lump, a rock, sand, dirt.

When it is all gone, Lemmy just says, 'Tas–ty!'

Then he walks away from us, on his own, his fat legs rubbing together at the knees.