My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm

Author:Shane Thamm
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ford Street Publishing

my private pectus

It's the hottest September day I can remember. Thirty degrees or more. It's half-time and we're sitting in the change room, throwing back Gatorade. If we had a commentator, he'd say the game has been played at a ‘feverish pace’, that all the boys are ‘digging in’, like soldiers in the trenches. It's the fight for the wooden spoon. Our last game is next week, but that's only because we can't make the finals. So this is the game everyone wants to win. But it's so hot I feel like I've got a brick lodged in my chest. Gez sits next to me, bent over, vomiting into a bucket. He's not the only one struggling with the heat, we all are.

‘Take your jerseys off, cool yourselves down,’ Dad says.

Anyone who hasn't already, pulls theirs off. Everyone except me. I sit, drawing back rapid breaths, my jersey sticking to me.

Dad points his finger at me. ‘I'm not asking you, I'm telling you,’ he says. ‘Take it off.’

‘It's all right,’ I say, ‘I don't feel too bad.’ But I feel rotten, feel like I'm going to hurl up all over the concrete floor. My head throbs and I wipe sweat from my eyes.

He eyeballs me like he would have eyeballed the opposition back in his playing days. Roger's nearby, pacing, revelling in the heat of battle. Even though I plastered his place with my innards he turned up just like he said he would. I was in the car park with Cuppas and Gez when his black BMW purred in. He got out and scanned for Dad. His dimpled face followed me as I went with the boys onto the oval. I walked as tall as I could, trying not to look intimidated, but I was packing it.

The day after dinner with the Pasks I had to go pick up the Pissan. I was in bed, still hung-over, when Dad thrust forty bucks at me before bundling me into a cab. Roger greeted me at the door wearing a Hawaiian shirt, boardies and slip-on leather sandals. He crossed his arms over his solid pecs and his jaw set like an All Black before the haka. He ran his tongue slowly behind his lips.

I thumbed over my shoulder at the Pissan. ‘I've come for the—’

‘Keys are in the lounge room,’ his voice rumbled from deep in his throat.

I squeezed past him. Once inside, I waited for permission to go further, but he kept standing there, so I scurried off anyway. I paused at the bar, ran my hand over the varnish. There was no stain, but the rug was gone. The smell of spew and potpourri choked the air. I snatched the keys from the coffee table.

Roger was still at the door when I got back. Holding the keys up, I forced a smile and gave them a jingle. His breath wheezed through his hairy nostrils, his Adam's apple rose and fell as I squeezed through the space again. Then we

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