Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
"Roses?" Detective Holden asked, looking completely baffled by the end of the kid's last statement. "What do you mean 'she smelt like roses'?"
"She smelt like roses," Will repeated, his face carrying none of the confusion expressed by Detective Holden. "I turned around and that was what I smelt."
"You mean, literally?" the Detective asked, tossing the last of his takeaway in the garbage before standing up and moving toward the coffee machine. "As in, flowers?"
"Yes, roses," Will repeated, frustration evident in his features as he too discarded the cardboard container in his hand.
"But what do 'roses' have to do with anything?" he asked, checking the machine's levels before refilling it with jerky movements. "They're just... roses."
"Come on, you're the Detective, you figure it out."
"Don't get smart," the Detective snapped, regretting the action as he watched the kid fold his arms across his chest. "I'm sorry kid, but it's late. I've got another twelve-hour shift tomorrow and I can't do anything for you if you keep messing me around."
"Ok," the kid said, his voice softening a little despite the retention of his defensive stance. "I'm gonna say this once - roses."
"Roses."
"Think about it," he said, watching the Detective brew his fourth cup of the evening. "Roses."
Roses. He was sure he'd missed something along the way. Leaning against the counter, he racked his brain, trying to think of what the kid could possibly mean.
She smelt like roses. She smelt like roses...
Suddenly, it clicked. "Wait, you mean she smelt like..."
"Exactly."
Just think about what I've said, ok.
The words echoed around my head, heightening my agitation as I closed the office door and moved into the hallway.
Just think about what I've said.
Looking down the mostly empty corridor, I could see I was already seriously late for lunch, a fact that did nothing to improve my worsening mood as I began to move away from the door. Stopping to toss some textbooks in my locker, I found myself staring at the cold grey metal, wondering just what the hell I was supposed to be thinking about.
Just think about it.
Think about what? It seemed the whole thing had already been spelt out for me.
Think about it.
NO. Slamming the door and twisting the lock, I decided I was done thinking. Grabbing my backpack and moving through the hallway door, I resolved to switch my brain off and just enjoy the next half hour for what it was...
Time out.
"Oi! Hathaway, over here!"
The voice came booming across the schoolyard, its owner looking every inch the basketball player as he stood under the hoop holding an orange ball. Standing almost 6'5" on the old scale, he had all the tools to excel in the sport; but his inaction did little to disguise a crippling handicap...
Basically, Stick Man was retarded.
We'd first met 'Stick Man' Webster at the beginning of fifth grade, when he'd appeared at the doorway to our classroom with a comb-over and a Hey Arnold backpack on his shoulder. Standing out straight away in our little fifth grade world, he was almost as tall as the teacher at the front of the room; standing at least three inches taller than the next tallest kid in the class. Someone had forgotten to tell his tailor, though. Wearing a blazer that practically swallowed him whole, he was the most awkward-looking kid I'd ever seen; a first impression set in stone when he tripped on a thread and nearly tumbled face-first into the dusty carpet.
"Ah, you must be David," the teacher greeted, looking him up and down as she tried to ignore his clumsiness. Pausing at the trousers that bunched around his ankles, she shook her head with wry smile; gesturing to the twenty or so desks that spread in perfect symmetry across the classroom floor. "Please, take a seat."
Watching him straighten himself up, we saw him look around at the proffered seats; a thoughtful look on his face as he considered the multitude of options before him. Option one was in the front row, in a seat next to Michael 'Snotty' Dunlop. Although it was possible to rise above the front row stigma, a liaison with 'Snotty' and his cat hair-covered pants was almost certain social suicide. Seeming to instantly recognize this fact, David turned his attention to the free seat two rows further back, alongside Jodie Crawford and her peanut butter-dotted braces. Appearing to seriously consider this seat for a moment, his attention suddenly turned to 'Picker' Walters, and the disgusting habit that resulted in the free seat next to him.
The look on his face said it all, really.
Turning to Scott and motioning toward the free seat next to us, I initiated a quick negotiation; weighing up all the pros and cons of inviting the new kid to sit with us. Clearly, the kid needed to be saved from himself. I mean, he liked Hey Arnold for God's sake. Nobody likes Hey Arnold. Not even Arnold likes Hey Arnold. And let's not forget the mummy's boy haircut. The kid was a walking disaster. But did we really want a big kid like him as an enemy?
"Hey, Stick Man!"
Probably not.
"Back here!" Scott called, watching as Dave's head snapped around in recognition.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
"So where the fuck were you this morning?" Dave asked, still staring at the basketball in his hand as if it might explode.
"Around."
"Around where?" he asked, watching with dark eyes as I tossed down my backpack and joined him on the court. "Scott said you'd done a runner when I saw him earlier."
"Oh you know, I get around," I assured him, winking as he tossed me the ball and watched me knock down a jump shot. "Speaking of, just had a date with McMahon."
"Again?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
"Well," I said. "You're not gonna believe this, but she's put me in ADVANCED English."
"You're shitting me?" he said, grabbing the ball and putting up his own shot. It missed. "What are you doing in that pansy class to start with, anyway?"
"What pansy class?" Scott interjected, lobbing in late as he threw down his own backpack and joined in the game.
"English Literature."
"Big words, Sticky," he laughed, stealing the ball from Dave and dribbling it away.
"Fuck you, homo," Dave said, lunging.
"Come on boys, play nice."
"Yeah David," Scott teased, easily sidestepping him.
"What are you, my mother?" he said, lunging again.
"Do I look like I have herpes?"
"Ooh, shut down," I said, pretending to take a closer look. "But then again, Scotty, your mouth does look kinda scabby..."
"That's a cold sore, you fuckwit."
"Sure it is," I nodded.
"You'd know," he said, pulling out his crossover move as he blew by Dave and threw down a dunk. "Go fetch, Sticky."
"God, you're such a fag when you want to be," Dave muttered, chasing the ball as it trickled away.
"Speak for yourself," Scott laughed. "I'm not the one who listens to Fall Out Boy."
"Hey, you leave Fall Out Boy out of this," I said, hoping Dave would take the opening and regain some lost ground...
"Yeah, Scott!"
He didn't.
"Oh, guess what?" I said, turning to Scott as Dave missed another jump shot and chased the ball again.
"What?"
"Apparently my folks are heading out of town next weekend."
"Meaning?"
"Party at my place," I said, grinning.
"You're still game after what happened last time?" Scott asked, giving me a bit of an incredulous look.
"Last time?" Dave asked, returning with the ball.
"Party," I told him. "My place."
"When?"
"Next Saturday."
"Where?"
"I just told you that, idiot."
"Oh yeah," he said, bouncing an eighteen footer off the rim. "Who's coming?"
"Dunno, haven't decided yet."
"Not as many as last time?" he asked, grinning.
"Haha, probably not."
The last time I'd thrown a party at my house, things had gotten a little bit out of hand. It had all started out innocently enough - a bit of cheese, a few biscuits, a little small talk... Ok, so I'd bought myself a keg and invited the whole grade. But when the cops got there around midnight, there were 200 people I didn't know on my front lawn! By the time my father got home the next evening, we'd built a beer can wall over eight feet high. Needless to say, there'd been hell to pay afterward.
"I still can't believe your parents are game to leave you home for the weekend," Dave said, feeding Scott a bounce pass as he missed a ten-footer.
"I don't think my dad cares what I do, frankly," I told him, watching as he collected the rebound.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Now can we talk about something else?" I asked, breaking the awkward silence as I caught Dave's pass and put up an unsuccessful shot.
"Yeah, like Fall Out Boy," Scott offered, laughing as Dave rebounded the ball again and threw it at his head.
"Haha, good call," I said, grateful for the opening as I watched Scott chase after the ball.
"Don't you start," Dave said, suddenly turning to me.
"Or what?"
He didn't say anything to that, simply shaking his head as he stared off into the distance.
"Cheer up, Sticky," I told him, watching as he fiddled with the pocket on his pants. "Plenty of retards live normal, fulfilling lives."
"What?"
"Don't worry," I told him, laughing as I reached for my backpack. "You know what, I'm sensing a time out."
"Soft," Dave said, watching as Scott came back with the ball and joined me on the sidelines.
"Get over yourself."
"Soft," Dave repeated, shaking his head as he grabbed the ball and shot an air ball.
"Sure you don't need a compass?" I called after him, watching as the ball bounced off a retaining wall and started rolling across the courtyard.
Pausing to take a drink from my water bottle, I sat and watched as Dave continued to chase the ball, running past many of the different groups that made up the schoolyard. By now, the last of the students had straggled out from the main building, and everyone had begun to segregate into their little social groups. To our left, an impromptu game of kick-to-kick had sprung up, with lots of yelling and cheering as the Aussie Rules boys flew high in a marking contest. About thirty metres to their right, a much more civilised game of kick-to-kick was underway, a few of the soccer boys quietly kicking a ball around as they plotted how to dispose of their Aussie Rules counterparts. In front of both groups sat the school's most popular girls, cheering and clapping as they discussed what they'd done and what they wanted to do with the boys parading in front of them. And to their left sat a group of less-pretty clones. Apart from that, every other student had broken off into some sort of group, sitting and talking as they discussed whatever common interest had brought them all together.
It was organised chaos to its finest point, the whole student body working in perfect sync as they unconsciously took their position on the totem pole. Nobody challenged the social order, and they all knew their exact place. All... except for one. Somehow, removed from the entire scene was a lonely blond-haired figure, sitting on the fringes beneath a pine tree as he tapped his foot to the beat of his iPod...
"Dude, is that Justin Riley?" Dave asked, returning again as what he'd been staring at earlier became clear.
"Mmmhmm," I muttered, noncommittally; pretending not to notice the distant smile as Justin closed his eyes and began to air-drum along with the beat.
"What's that faggot doing here?" Dave asked, still watching me.
"No idea," I told him, tearing my gaze away as I tossed my water bottle aside.
"Yeah, we don't talk about that," Scott told him, tossing his own water bottle aside as he raised an eyebrow in Dave's direction.
"Fair enough," Dave said, letting the matter drop as he threw up another awkward jump shot. "Let's talk about something else, then."
And until the lunch bell rang fifteen minutes later, that's exactly what we did.
When I was seven, there was only one thing I ever wanted to do in life...
Visit Disneyland.
Disneyland. Disneyland. Disneyland.
Disneyland.
Reading every book I could find on the subject, I'd set my heart on seeing Mickey Mouse, and I had zero issues telling my mum whenever we jumped in the car to visit every place in the world not named Disneyland.
"Are we going? Are we going?" I'd always ask when she strapped me into the back seat. "Are we going to go to Disneyland?"
"One day," she'd always tell me, offering a wistful smile to match my hopeful expression. "One day we'll go to Disneyland."
And then she'd jump in the driver's seat and take me to the dentist instead. The disappointment would always linger, but the entire Disneyland experience had been forgotten by the time I was eight and setting my heart on visiting Endor instead.
"Are we going? Are we going?"
"No, Will," she'd say. "We're not going to visit the Ewoks today."
And soon, that dream was crushed as well.
Over the next couple of years, I dreamed of time travel in a DeLorean, of eating pizza with Ninja Turtles, of throwing curveballs with Rick Vaughn. But by the time I was twelve and the winter holidays rolled around, I was told 'you're far too old' and all those dreams were long forgotten. Or at least, long forgotten until a cold and wet Wednesday afternoon in June...
"Hello boys," my mum began, looking down at our third game of Monopoly as she walked into the kitchen with her hands behind her back. "What would you say if I could bring you Disneyland?"
I think my jaw was somewhere near the floor. "Disneyland?!"
"Disneyland," she repeated, bringing her hands into view as she dropped a cardboard box on the Blackwood table. "All 1500 pieces of it."
"Disneyland." I stared down at the jigsaw puzzle sitting in front of me. "Um, that wasn't quite what I meant."
"I know," she said, winking at both of us. "Knock yourselves out anyway."
And with that, she disappeared back out the front door, moving to collect her remaining shopping from the car. Turning back toward our board game, I looked across the kitchen table at Justin, the unspoken question met with an ambivalent shrug of the shoulders. "You wanna?"
He didn't say anything right away, instead turning attention to the panorama printed across the front of the cardboard. "Can if you want."
I looked down at my losing effort on the Monopoly board. "I always wanted to visit Disneyland."
"Me too," he said, with a smile.
And with that, we were on our way. Taking the box and our bag of corn chips into the lounge room, we began the epic task of putting the puzzle together, starting with the tedious outside edges. Spanning almost four square feet, it was easily the biggest challenge we'd ever undertaken - a task that would take over four days and an immeasurable amount of sugar hits. Sitting on the floor day after day, we'd talked about anything and everything we could think of - school, sports, cartoons; everything from our hopes and dreams to the composition of our perfect comic book hero. He thought he needed a Batmobile to get around in, but I thought he needed to fly. He thought he should be a millionaire playboy by day, but I thought he should report for the Daily Planet. We could both agree he didn't need a lame horse like The Phantom, though.
"Almost there," I wearily grinned, as we took a break near the end of the fourth evening. "Can't be long to go now."
"I know," he said, tossing an arm around my shoulder. "Pretty awesome, isn't it?"
We both took a step back to admire our handiwork. Taking a pile of cardboard pieces, we'd worked together and recreated one of the world's most breathtaking images - a timeless testament to man's imagination. But despite the beauty of the image before us, it was nothing compared to the way his eyes lit up as he looked down at what we'd achieved. He'd never bothered with the indifference most kids projected to the world, but the look on his face was worth every one of those 1500 pieces.
Letting my arm slip from his warm grip, I knelt down next to the remaining pile of pieces, signalling that I was ready to finish the job. Reading the unspoken signal, he slowly joined me back down on the carpeted floor, beginning to search again for the pieces that would complete the Sleeping Beauty castle.
"Hey dude, can you see the pointy bit anywhere?" he eventually asked, after he'd been through all the remaining pieces. "I can't find it."
"Nope," I told him, grinning with satisfaction as I fitted the final piece from my pile. The final piece of the entire puzzle it would have seemed, if not for the gap at the top of the turret. "Why, have you lost it?"
"Haha, no," he said, giving me a gentle shove as he began to look around the floor. "It isn't lost, I just can't find it."
"Uhuh," I nodded, teasing him as he began to search on his hands and knees. "It isn't lost, you just can't find it."
"Shut up," he said, poking me in the side. "Help me look."
"But it isn't lost," I said, continuing to tease him. But in spite of the mocking tone, I joined him there anyway; crawling across the woollen carpet as we began to search for the missing piece. When we still couldn't find anything twenty minutes later, we'd called my mum into the room and got her down on her hands and knees as well. But after covering every square inch of the lounge room, it still wasn't to be found.
The puzzle still remains unfinished to this day.
"Dude, get over it."
"Huh?" I looked down to where Scott now sat on my bedroom floor.
"I said, 'get over it,'" he repeated, watching as I moved away from the window and sat down on the bed. "You shouldn't let him get to you."
"Who?"
"You know who," he said, not even bothering to look up.
"Whatever," I said, giving him the finger as he grinned at the predictable gesture. "Remind me why I let you follow me home, again?"
"Because I'm the only one who puts up with your shit," he said, laughing as he juggled a bag of Doritos with the Xbox controller in his hand. "Seriously, get over it."
"Get over what, exactly?" I said, watching as he un-paused and resumed his game of NBA Live. "We were friends, he left. Big deal."
"Exactly," he said, tossing the corn chips at me as he sunk a free throw. "So get over it."
"Whatever," I said, watching him sink the second free throw.
"Who's coming to this party of yours, anyway?" he said, changing the subject as he reached again for the corn chips.
"Dunno," I said, grabbing a handful of my own. "The usual crowd, I guess. Might invite a few girls from St. Michael's as well."
"Nice," he said, winking as he again reached for the bag. "I'm sure they'll keep you occupied."
"For sure," I said, reaching for the second controller. "Let's get some multi-player action going, anyway."
And with that he exited the game, re-setting the system as we began to select teams for our own game of one-on-one. The next few minutes passed in relative quiet, with the silence only broken by the occasional heckle while the other player was at the foul line. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, though, and the corn chips were almost gone by the time a slamming door alerted us to another presence downstairs.
"WILLIAM, GET DOWN HERE NOW!"
No prizes for guessing who it was.
"Coming!" I yelled, pausing the game as I looked over at a bewildered Scott. "Coming?"
He didn't say anything to that, sitting there with a what the fuck? look on his face as I stood up and tossed the Xbox controller aside.
"Coming?" I repeated, moving toward the door. "Could be a while, otherwise."
"Yeah, whatever," he said, rising to his feet as he followed me out the door. Walking slowly down the stairs, I listened to see if anyone else was around. When the only sound was a set of thumping footsteps, I took the liberty of assuming we were home alone. I followed their lead into the kitchen.
"Would you care to tell me why I got another call from your Principal this afternoon?" he demanded, throwing his briefcase on the table as I walked in the door behind him.
"Not really, no." I didn't say anything after that, simply folding my arms as I watched him stomp around; hoping he'd take enough rope to hang himself in the process. He was too smart to fall into that trap, though. Noting my muted reaction, he turned around.
"Oh, you have company," he said, watching as Scott walked through the kitchen door behind me.
"Yeah," I said, in a flat tone. "Company."
"And how are you, Scott?" he asked, his entire demeanour changing as he moved across the kitchen and began to fill the kettle.
"Um, good," Scott said, shooting me a confused look. "Yeah, really good."
"That's good," my father replied. "Coffee?"
"Nah, thanks," Scott said, still looking uncomfortable. "We've already got stuff upstairs."
"That's ok," my father nodded, grabbing out a cup for himself anyway. "How's the basketball going, anyway?"
"Yeah, really good," he said, watching as he added two sugars. "Got state championships coming up, so that's cool."
"Ah yes," my father nodded, setting the sugar back on the counter as he waited for the kettle to boil. "I've been meaning to get along to one of Will's games, actually."
"Oh ok, cool."
"How's your dad, anyway?" my father asked, looking for all the world to be a concerned parent.
"Um, yeah, good."
"That's good," he said, nodding as he reached into the drawer for a spoon. "How's he doing with the tyre business, anyway?"
"Yeah, good," Scott said, watching as he closed the drawer again with one fluid motion. "Been really busy lately, so I guess he's doing ok."
"That's good," my father nodded, watching the kettle boil before beginning to fill his cup. "Sure you don't want coffee?"
"Nah, it's cool."
"Ok, I'll leave you boys to it then," he said, leaning back against the counter as he stirred the beverage with a smooth motion.
"Thanks," Scott said, removing his hands from his pockets as he began to turn around and retrace his steps. "Guess I'll see you around, Mr. Hathaway."
"Please, call me Bill," he said, dismissing the formal title with a wave of his hand.
"Um, sure Bill. Thanks."
"My pleasure."
And with that, we departed the kitchen; taking the stairs two at a time on the way back up to my bedroom.
"Dude, what the hell just happened?" Scott asked, as soon as I'd closed my bedroom door. "That was fucken weird, man."
"Trust me," I told him. "You don't want to know."
And that was all we had to say about that.
"Coffee?" the Detective asked, flicking the 'off' switch as the machine finished brewing.
"Um, yeah, thanks," the kid said, shifting to get more comfortable. "Black, two sugars."
The Detective raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said, adding the sweetener as he began to stir. "Nothing whatsoever."
"Good," the kid said, choosing to ignore whatever Detective Holden was insinuating. "Now where were we?"
"Roses," the Detective said, passing the kid his cup as he moved to retake his seat. "We were talking about roses."
"Ah yes," the kid replied, taking a sip from the steaming cup. "She smelt like roses."
"That must have come as a surprise," the Detective said, placing his own cup on the desk as he began to move things up a gear.
"Not really," the kid said. "I'd figured most of it out already."
"Tell me, then," the Detective said, retrieving his notepad as he began to scribble down some more details. "Exactly when did you figure out that your father was having an affair?"
Author's Note: Hope that makes up for Chapter Three haha. Email me at mcooke0@utas.edu.au or MSN at pluginmatty@hotmail.com.