Pookie Aleera is Not My Boyfriend

  Steven Herrick was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven children. At school his favourite subject was soccer, and he dreamed of football glory while he worked at various jobs. For the past twenty-five years he’s been a full-time writer and regularly performs his work in schools throughout the world. Steven lives in the Blue Mountains with his partner Cathie, a belly dance teacher. They have two adult sons, Jack and Joe.

  www.stevenherrick.com.au

  Also by Steven Herrick

  Young Adult

  Slice

  Black painted fingernails

  Water bombs

  Love, ghosts and nose hair

  A place like this

  The simple gift

  By the river

  Lonesome howl

  Cold skin

  Children

  Untangling spaghetti

  The place where the planes take off

  My life, my love, my lasagne

  Poetry to the rescue

  Love poems and leg-spinners

  Tom Jones saves the world

  Do-wrong Ron

  Naked bunyip dancing

  Rhyming boy

  In the past twenty-five years, I’ve visited over three thousand schools to read my work and talk to the students and teachers. So, finally, I’d like to dedicate a book to all the people who’ve welcomed me into their school lives.

  To the students: may all your days be sunny.

  To the teachers: may all your students be smiling.

  To the librarians: may all your books be borrowed.

  RACHEL

  My town

  is exactly

  four hundred and twenty-two kilometres

  from the ocean.

  I check the distance

  driving home from holidays

  with Mum and Dad

  the day before school begins

  and while Bondi Beach

  gets frothy waves

  of cool, salty water on white sand

  my town suffers

  waves of dust storms

  and locust plagues

  and heat that melts the bitumen

  and the first thing I do

  when we get home

  after driving all day

  is run down to the dam

  in the near paddock

  and dive in.

  The water is warm and brown.

  My toes squelch in the mud

  while the windmill clanks.

  A pond-skater buzzes the surface

  and starlings fantail

  across the sky

  the day before school begins.

  LAURA

  My new teacher

  wears a flowing summer dress

  with red pianos printed

  on white linen.

  Her hair is crow-black and messy

  and she pulls it back

  from her face

  and ties it with a red ribbon.

  She wears black ballet shoes

  and casually sits on her desk

  before asking us

  to tell her something, one thing,

  that we like about ourselves.

  Selina, Mick, Cameron, Pete and Rachel

  immediately

  raise their hands

  while I slink as low as possible

  behind my desk.

  SELINA

  Ms Arthur said we should

  bring in a photo of ourselves,

  our favourite,

  to paste on the Class 6A wall

  and we could draw a design

  around the photo

  with our name, in bright colours.

  And underneath our photo

  we could write,

  once a week,

  what we’ve done lately

  or what made us happy, or sad.

  ‘Just like Facebook,’ I said.

  On Tuesday we spent all morning

  drawing our names in big letters

  with swirling colours

  of red, yellow, green and blue.

  Except Cameron

  who wrote his name in tiny letters.

  His writing was so small

  you had to go really close

  just to see if it was there at all.

  And he’d chosen a thumbnail photo

  of when he was a baby

  lying in a cot asleep.

  Cameron spent the whole morning

  admiring his little photo and his teeny name

  surrounded by glaring white cardboard.

  Sometimes he stepped back

  and looked at the photo from different angles,

  like an artist.

  Then he’d move close and adjust it,

  just slightly.

  Finally Ms Arthur couldn’t stand it any longer.

  She asked Cameron

  if he planned to add anything

  to his cardboard.

  Cameron looked shocked

  and said, in his usual loud voice,

  ‘No way, Ms.

  I want to have lots of space

  to write about everything I think!’

  MICK

  I’m staring out the window

  minding no one’s business but my own

  because Ms Arthur is teaching maths

  and that’s not really my go.

  What do we have calculators for?

  Charlie Deakin from 5C comes in with a note

  and Ms Arthur tells me the Principal

  ‘requires my presence in his office’.

  So I follow Charlie along the verandah

  and he’s smirking the whole time

  because no one gets called out of class

  for good news,

  it’s always trouble,

  but I don’t say anything

  and I don’t act nervous

  because I haven’t done anything wrong,

  not lately anyway.

  Well, not that Mr Hume knows

  and I trust my classmates not to tell anyway.

  Charlie Deakin is still grinning

  like he’s won a prize,

  yeah, first-prize boofhead.

  He knocks on the Principal’s door

  and says to me,

  ‘Hume’s madder than a nest of bull ants.’

  Charlie Deakin opens the door

  and walks away down the hallway

  leaving me standing there

  with Mr Hume looking at me

  and he’s not smiling.

  ALEX

  I thought it was a simple question, really.

  Ms Arthur asked each of us to stand up, in turn,

  and say what we want to be

  when we grow up.

  The first five students said,

  ‘Farmer.’

  Then Rachel said,

  ‘Pilot.’

  And we went slowly around the class,

  ‘Teacher.’

  ‘Doctor.’

  ‘Truck driver.’

  ‘Vet.’

  ‘Soldier.’

  When it was my turn,

  I stood up

  and, in a very clear voice
, said,

  ‘A dad.’

  A few people giggled

  as if I’d said something rude,

  or stupid.

  I sat down again,

  red-faced and confused.

  It was the truth.

  I wanted to be a dad.

  I’ve never seen my dad

  and I wouldn’t wish that

  on anyone.

  Rachel stood up, again,

  and said,

  ‘Ms Arthur, I want to be a pilot

  and a mum!’

  MICK

  ‘Yeah, he’s my brother

  and I’m supposed to look after him

  but it was lunchtime, Mr Hume,

  and the canteen has a special –

  two dollars for a hot dog and drink.

  You should try it, sir.

  Mrs Casey says it’s a low-fat dog,

  if you’re worried.

  Not that you need to be worried, sir.

  Not at all.

  Back to my brother,

  well, he’s been talking all week

  about wanting to fly, sir.

  I thought he meant in a plane.

  You know, like normal people.

  You’ve got to admit it was pretty impressive

  climbing on the roof of the groundsman’s shed.

  Maybe planting wattles that close

  wasn’t such a good idea

  even if they bloom yellow all summer.

  I don’t think he meant to jump, sir.

  He was probably just checking the wind speed.

  No, sir. I did not give him

  the feathers, the sticks or the glue.

  He’ll be in big trouble with Mum

  when she discovers the spare doona is empty.

  Yes, it’s true, last year

  I told all the boys in Kindy

  they had to wear a dress in honour

  of Darcy Dress, the famous inventor.

  I got a week’s detention,

  and Mum had me sewing,

  can you believe it,

  sewing dresses, as punishment!

  I’ve learnt my lesson, sir.

  So, honestly, truly and no kidding,

  I didn’t tell Jacob to jump off the roof.

  How is Mr Korsky, sir?

  It must have been a shock,

  having an eight-year-old land on your back.

  But I hear it broke Jacob’s fall, sir.

  Mr Korsky is a hero!

  Maybe we should celebrate,

  have a special lunch?

  Ask Mrs Casey to order in pizzas?

  Sorry, sir, I know that’s off the point,

  so, trust me,

  I will talk to Jacob about

  outlandish flying experiments

  and jumping off the roof,

  I promise.’

  JACOB

  I didn’t see him.

  I was looking up,

  flapping my arms

  as fast as they could go.

  I only looked down

  when my wings fell off.

  That wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Mr Korsky was leaning over,

  filling the watering can.

  What could I do?

  I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck

  to break my fall

  and we both hit the ground,

  like two hay bales

  that rolled off the back of Dad’s truck.

  Mr Korsky said a few words

  I’m pretty sure are illegal at school,

  words my dad said once

  when he was fixing the chook shed

  and the hammer slipped.

  I reckon it’s okay Mr Korsky swore

  because I still had my arms tight around his neck

  and maybe he thought I was a criminal

  trying to steal his wallet,

  his gardening tools

  or his bright blue watering can.

  All those swear words

  would have scared away any thief.

  I was ready to run, too,

  only it hurt in my arms, legs, back, ribs

  and other parts I can’t name.

  It felt better not moving,

  lying on my back and crying seemed the best idea.

  So that’s what I did.

  Mr Korsky looked like he wanted to join me.

  PETE

  Nan says the road to our house

  is like a train track without the rails.

  Just stones and ruts and potholes.

  It goes on for ages

  and last year the shire council

  decided the school bus couldn’t take it anymore.

  Nah, they didn’t fix the road,

  they stopped the service.

  It’s only our family who lives out here.

  Now we walk up Peaks Hill

  and cut through the Jensen farm,

  stepping over millions of cowpats

  and dodging the stinging nettle

  to reach the other road

  where the bus does stop.

  It takes me and Ursula twenty minutes

  because she’s only six years old

  and I have to hold her hand,

  even if she doesn’t want me to.

  We only have to do it for another few weeks

  because the council has decided

  to bitumen our road.

  True.

  All because the ambulance didn’t make it on time

  when Grandpa had a heart attack last month.

  If it was a proper road . . .

  but it wasn’t and even though Dad and me

  lifted him into the Land Rover

  and Dad drove

  like I’ve never seen him drive before,

  we only made it halfway to town.

  The ambulance put Grandpa on the metal trolley

  that clanked and creaked

  and we jumped in the back.

  But it didn’t do any good.

  I held Ursula’s hand at the funeral too.

  It was warm and soft and small.

  I looked at her hand in mine for ages,

  instead of looking at Grandpa’s coffin.

  CAMERON

  Last night

  Mum had her flamenco classes,

  Dad was working late

  and my sister Simone was at netball

  so

  I was alone

  and I’d told everyone

  I was cooking my own dinner

  and I promised to clean up afterwards,

  no worries.

  I looked in the freezer –

  frozen pizza,

  chicken wings

  and yesterday’s leftover stew.

  I checked the fridge –

  eggs,

  bacon

  and the last slice of Simone’s cheesecake.

  I searched the cupboard –

  cans of minestrone soup,

  baked beans

  and an unopened packet of Tim Tams,

  Mum’s favourite.

  I stood in the kitchen for hours

  trying to decide.

  I was so hungry that I wanted everything . . .

  but where to start?

  To give myself time to choose

  I sat in front of the television

  with the remote,

  flicking from chann
el to channel –

  Discovery had a virtual trip to the moon

  and there were cartoons on both Disney channels

  and soccer,

  cricket

  and rugby league

  on the sports channels

  and there was a Simpsons hour

  starting in five minutes

  and I didn’t think that was enough time

  to cook anything

  so I switched off the television

  and turned on the computer

  and surfed the net

  to see if I could find the games site

  I was on yesterday

  and I got caught up in a chat with my mate Alex

  but he couldn’t talk for long

  ’cause his mum had just called him for dinner

  which reminded me

  I still hadn’t eaten

  so I went to the kitchen

  and placed two slices of bread on a plate,

  then held the honey jar high above the bread

  and squeezed,

  great dollops of liquid gold dribbled over the bread

  (and the plate and the bench . . . and the floor).

  I promised myself I’d clean it up

  before anyone got home.

  But first, the sweet dinner!

  I sat on the bench

  and lowered the soggy bread into my mouth,

  chewing and smacking my lips, eyes closed.

  A honey empire and I was King!

  After eating

  I went to the lounge,

  put my feet up

  and stuffed lots of pillows all around me

  before switching on The Simpsons.

  That’s all I remember.

  This morning I woke up in my own bed

  so Dad must have carried me in

  and I missed The Simpsons

  and I didn’t cook anything

  and I didn’t play any computer games

  but, most importantly,

  I didn’t open Mum’s Tim Tams

  and eat them all!

  JACOB

  At the hospital

  the kind nurse bandaged my right arm

  all the way up to my elbow

  and down to my fingers.

  She also put some smelly yellow liquid

  on my scratched knee.

  As she did, she smiled and said it might hurt.

  I said, ‘Not as much as falling off a shed.’

  The doctor shone a torch in my eyes

  and put a very cold hearing-aid-thing to my chest,