LITMIR.BIZ

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know what you were doing. Thanks for that, Corky.’

      I didn’t bother correcting Ralph. He was one of the few people I’d allow to mispronounce my name.

      ‘Uh-huh.’

      ‘Did you see her keyhole?’

      Ralph was standing there smiling, waiting for me to confirm the sighting of Paula Stromboli’s thing. He’d never spoken to me before. I knew I had to prove something or I was going to be in trouble. Ralph was one of those who singled out boys and ridiculed them for being poofters. This was a regular sport at St Kevin’s. Gary Jings was a poofter and everyone knew it. He had a girl’s shiny pink pencil case and drew swirly things in art class. He even folded the hems of his shorts up like fancy trouser cuffs. Gary Jings paid for these crimes at lunchtime when he sat on his own near the caretaker’s shed pretending to read while kids circled and yelled things like ‘bum-kisser’.

      I didn’t call Gary names. I watched others ridicule him and felt sick inside. It was fear and frustration. I felt drawn to and disgusted by Gary Jings. He should’ve known better than to display his poofterism. There were several boys who did it at St Kevin’s but we kept our activities to ourselves. There was a place for that sort of thing and that place was the nature reserve behind the bike sheds.

      It wasn’t right the way Gary always bore the abuse. He sat passively with his knees pressed together, occasionally looking up with a dull smile and a faint spark of hope in his eyes. This only infuriated thugs like Ralph who would then administer a Chinese burn or half-Nelson. It was awful to watch the torture of Gary Jings. He never tried to run away. He just went limp and took it. He should’ve denied being a poofter and hidden his pencil case but he didn’t. The one thing I didn’t want to be in life was a Gary Jings.

      Ralph narrowed his eyes. I had to prove I was as much a man as him. I looked down at the fairy cake and the hundreds and thousands that were stuck to my fingers. When I looked up, I met Ralph’s eyes with a piercing stare.

      ‘Yeah.’

      Ralph smiled. It was a man-of-the-world smile. We understood each other. I was the sort of boy who regularly looked inside girls’ underpants. Ralph liked me and it felt good. I tightened the grip on my fairy cake.

      ‘Why did you ask old O’Hairs if you could stand up?’

      The fairy cake collapsed in my hand, sending crumbs flying over the front of my shorts.

      ‘You know.’

      ‘Nah.’

      ‘I was just, ah, just trying to stir up old Hairsie.’

      ‘He was so mad. Did he hurt you?’

      This was a stupid question. Ralph was only too familiar with O’Hare’s ruler. Being hit over the hand with a slab of wood was incredibly painful. It was a white pain that made your ears go silent with blood pressure.

      ‘Nah.’

      ‘Yeah, O’Hairs is too weak. He’s a big fairy. Brother O’Fairy. Ha, ha.’ Ralph bent his wrists like Kenneth Williams and paraded around in front of me. ‘You think he’s seen Stromboli’s keyhole?’

      The idea of Brother O’Hare poking around inside Paula Stromboli’s underpants made me want to laugh out loud in Ralph’s face. I controlled myself. Ralph didn’t know a thing.

      ‘Yeah I bet he has.’

      ‘She’s a slut.’

      I wasn’t going to argue with Ralph but I didn’t think Paula Stromboli was a slut. If anything, she was like me, an entertainer looking for an audience. She’d apologised after the bell went for playtime. She hadn’t meant to get me into trouble. ‘I was just trying to give you a look.’ I hadn’t refused when Paula offered to lend me her Cherish LP. I was a big fan of David Cassidy. He wore very tight trousers and had silky hair that stayed swished back even during vigorous dance moves.

      My big day was coming up but like every year Carmel was going to cheat me out of the attention that was rightfully mine. I was a year younger than her but had the misfortune of being born on the day after her birthday. This gave my special day a definite second-best status. Carmel called her birthday the main event. Mine was the repeat performance.

      On the morning of her tenth birthday, Carmel got a doll called Nancy. It was made of pony-coloured plastic and had movable limbs and long white synthetic hair. Nancy came with a vinyl make-up kit and an irresistible set of tiny pink hair curlers. I loved curlers and spent hours playing with the set my mother had received from her brother Norman. He’d also given her a portable hairdryer with a floral plastic cap. On the days when Mum had two hours to spare I was allowed to roller and set her hair.

      Carmel finished unwrapping the doll with impatience. When she saw what was inside, she said ‘Ugh’ and put it to one side. I swallowed a mouthful of breakfast cereal and reached for the box.

      ‘Hands off, fat boy.’

      ‘I just want to touch her hair. It’s so long and shiny.’

      ‘That’s enough, Julian!’ My father was giving me his don’t-you-start look.

      I felt tears building. Carmel poked her tongue out and made a chopper with her hand, a warning not to cross the invisible line between the doll and me. She moved on to the next present. It was a Nancy ‘Evening Fantasy’ outfit in a clear plastic tray. She let out another ‘Ugh’ and tossed it next to the doll. The urge to touch the little pink curlers was almost unbearable. Carmel sighed and felt the other presents through their wrappers. I knew she was looking for a cricket ball and I knew she wasn’t going to find one. At least her frustration was some sort of consolation.

      Carmel left her other presents unopened on the dinette divan and went back to her rice puffs. As Daddy’s girl, Carmel was entitled to be ungrateful. My father gave her an indulgent smile, pushed his chair back and stood up.

      It was now or never. It would be my birthday in less than twenty-four hours. I had to convince my parents to buy me something practical, a present I could actually use. I tugged Dad’s sleeve.

      ‘Dad, can I have a Nancy?’

      ‘No you cannot! Nancy dolls are for girls! You’re a boy and boys want Dinky toys.’

      My father’s response was too fierce and too loud. Carmel snorted into her cereal, sending a shower of rice puffs and milk over the Aussiemica tabletop.

      ‘Not me. I want a Nancy.’ The tears had started and my voice was shrill. I didn’t want junk. I wanted a doll.

      ‘You’re not getting one and that’s final.’

      Dad shoved his empty chair against the table and made a move for the door. I leaped off the divan and flattened myself on the floor face down. I started to kick and punch the lino, wailing.

      ‘Shut up, Julian.’ It was too much for my father. He hated displays, especially from boys.

      ‘It’s not fair. Carmel gets everything.’

      I reached out and grabbed Dad around an ankle. He straightened his leg and tried to shake me off. I held tight, crying into his trouser leg.

      ‘For God’s sake, get off and stop being a cry baby.’ He swiped me over the head with the Punter’s Gazette and shuffled toward the door, dragging his leg with me attached.

      ‘I want a Nancy, Dad. Please, please, please.’ The words came out in shrieks between sobs.

      Mum bent down and pulled me off. My father hurled himself out of the house and slammed the door behind him. I was still kicking and flailing my arms as Mum pulled me against her chest. I felt her turn her head toward Carmel.

      ‘Carmel, go wash your face.’

      ‘I’m not dirty, Mum. It’s my birthday.’ There was laughter in her voice. She’d been enjoying the main event.

      ‘Get out of this dinette right now,

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