The Nest by Paul Jennings

Author:Paul Jennings
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781742285467
Publisher: Penguin Group Australia
Published: 2009-07-25T04:00:00+00:00

THE NEST

4

After I leave the principal’s office I go back to my Maths class. I’m not going to make an appointment with Mr Rogers. Kids who go there are either psychos or misfits and I’m neither. Or maybe I’m both. Either way I’m not having any labels hung around my neck.

I go through every class on automatic. I do what I have to do but I don’t join in discussions or answer questions. I sit up the back thinking about the way my life is going down the gurgler. When the final bell sounds I grab my bag and make my escape.

The bus isn’t there. Now we’ll all be late getting home, which is a pain when everyone wants to get away for the school holidays. The bus kids start to mill around on the footpath. I don’t feel like talking to anyone so I go back inside the school gate and sit on the edge of the fountain. It hasn’t been turned on in two years because of the water restrictions. I sit there and think.

A shadow blots out the sun. I look up but at first I can’t make out who it is because he’s silhouetted against the bright light.

‘Hi, Robin,’ says Mr Rogers.

‘Hi, Mr Rogers,’ I say with a resigned sigh. He doesn’t look like a teacher with his faded jeans, T-shirt and denim jacket. He’s not a bad bloke – one of the most popular staff members actually – but if you go to see him everyone knows about it. Already I can see a couple of kids looking over in our direction. I thought I saw Charlie glancing my way but maybe it was just my imagination.

Mr Henderson’s obviously told Mr Rogers I’ve got a problem, and he’s come looking for me. I’m wary; there’s no way I’m going to start blabbing about my flickering images.

‘Call me Steve,’ he says, taking a seat next to me. ‘All the kids who come to see me do.’

‘But I don’t come to see you … Mr Rogers.’

He gives an amused smile. ‘I read your story, Robin. The Tree.’

‘Did you like it?’ I say, trying to steer him away from questions about my mother.

‘It’s very clever,’ he replies. ‘Black humour. Well written. What’s it about?’

‘I thought you said you’d read it.’

‘I did. What’s it about?’ he says again.

‘Trees.’

He tries once more. ‘What’s the theme?’

He’s playing the literary game. Trying to get under my guard. ‘Freedom,’ I say.

‘The mother tree?’

‘Yes, she took off.’

‘Why?’

I hesitate. ‘Because her family was hopeless. Arguing and criticising and complaining. They got what they deserved.’

‘Maybe there was some other reason she went,’ he says slowly.

This comment annoys me. I should know what it’s about. I wrote it. ‘It’s my story,’ I say.

‘Is it?’ he says. ‘That’s interesting.’

I don’t know what he’s getting at but I can feel resentment welling up inside me. ‘Well, what do you think the theme is?’ I shoot back.

‘It could be about abandonment,’ he says.

I spring to my feet. ‘I have to go,’ I say.

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