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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781925591705 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Fremantle Press |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2018 |
| Edition description: | None |
| Pages: | 296 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.90(d) |
| Age Range: | 12 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
ELLEN VAN NEERVEN
Ellen van Neerven is an Aboriginal writer and poet who comes from the Yugambeh people of South East Queensland. This story is a work of fiction which is grounded in her perspective as a Queer Black woman. Ellen writes, 'growing up in Brisbane, I've always played and been obsessed with football (soccer) and I love our Aboriginal soccer heroes like Kyah Simon, Lydia Williams and Jada Mathyssen-Whyman.'
Night Feet
The scholarship was due today and Dad wasn't home. If I didn't get the scholarship money I wouldn't be going to the Nationals. I tried turning my back to the window and began finishing my application. Every scrape outside could be him.
Dad didn't have a phone. One day he propped his old Nokia up on a ledge above the creek and got my brother and me to take turns throwing rocks at it. We both missed twice and he grew impatient. Knocked it off the cliff himself.
Hours went by too quickly as I lost time cleaning up the kitchen, heating soup on the stove, thinking he'd return for lunch. It was afternoon, and I was still missing a few lines when I remembered we didn't have a printer and I had a game at 8.30 pm.
I filled my backpack, putting in my unwashed strip, shin pads that had been lying outside on the barbecue, and two bottles of water. Importantly, I had a hair tie and a thin band to push back my fringe. I went back and wrote a hurried last sentence on my application. I finished with the words I love it, but did I? This had felt like the most important thing in the world once, but last night, today, it had all slipped away. What would happen if I didn't get the money to go to Canberra? I had relied on Dad to be home to work out how we'd get the application in; he would have planned how we'd print it. I would have to work it out for myself.
I'd catch the bus to the library in town, because the post office near it closed later than the local one did. I knew, because Mum used to work there.
There were more people outside the library than in, sitting at the café, standing against the walls talking and hooked into the wi-fi. I hurried through the doors, printed my application and went straight out, with minutes left to post it.
It felt familiar, running to the post office just before closing, across the road, under the bridge, past the pubs starting to get busy and noisy. I didn't like running in my thongs, the V slipping between my toes, but I looked straight ahead and tried to think of an end goal. Like I was on the pitch.
The footpath was blocked off a little farther on, but there was no way I was going to cross the road and back again; I'd lose too much time. I dodged some parked cars and stepped over a patch of water that hadn't drained, and got back on the footpath. Ahead of me, a woman dropped a letter in the express post mailbox outside the post office and I wondered if it was already too late. I half-expected the sliding doors not to open. I ran in and looked frantically around for an envelope. The lady behind the counter said, 'Just a letter? Try an envelope from over there, honey.'
Not just a letter, my inner voice insisted, but I listened to her, and into the kind of happy cream decorative envelope you'd use to send photos of your cat to your grandmother — not the most important document of your life — I folded the application. I scribbled the address from a Post-It and handed the envelope to the lady.
'Just this one?'
'Will it be postmarked today?' I blurted.
'Ah, yeah,' she said. 'I just got to push this back.' I watched her keenly as she picked at the mail stamp, clicking the numbers back. I realised that today was the last day of the month, and that the 28th to the 1st was a big leap. She seemed to struggle with it. Mum could have stood there, where the lady's feet were. She changed the date, stamped my envelope, and I paid her.
I had half an hour until the train to the soccer field and I walked back to the café at the library. I ordered myself a coffee. I'd never had coffee before, but after a sleepless night and with the need for a load of energy tonight, I thought it was a good time to start. I did worry about dehydration, but I had two water bottles, and they could be refilled. With Dad's voice, I said, gruffly, 'Cappuccino, thanks'. I ordered it to go, as they looked like they were packing up. I'd be the machine's last kiss. When they handed it to me, I went and sat in the garden, and watched the people. There was a young black man, African, walking around. I admired his red, new-looking sneakers, a pair like the ones I wanted but Dad would never give me. I could hear the beat of his music, see the yellow buds in his ears. He was wearing a white T-shirt and grey jeans. He looked at me. I sculled the coffee, hot and sudden in my throat. My father's habit. Mum always said to him, You burn yourself. You'll have no tastebuds left for my casserole.
The coffee tasted nice, and I already felt less tired. There was a breeze filtering through the garden, caressing my thighs. I chucked the cup in the bin and decided it was time to get changed into my football shorts in the toilets. I stopped for a moment, reopened my bag and took a sip from my water bottle. 'Keep sipping before the game,' Brisbane Roar captain Jade North had said when he came to visit the club. 'Don't gulp.'
I loved North. I rarely had affection for a defender but I loved him because he was a blackfella and a real workhorse. I rested my bag on the slab of concrete on the side of the café. A sitting spot tucked away. This was the corner where I'd had my first kiss, last year, and the feeling of it always returned. I put my bottle down, and the wind picked it up and took it, and it rolled in the direction of the African boy. He caught it easily and handed it back.
'Thanks,' I smiled. 'Crazy wind, hey?'
He nodded. He still had his earphones in but I couldn't hear the music anymore. As I packed my bag up, he took a step closer and said, 'Hey, how you going?'
'Good,' I said. 'And you?'
'Good. Just waiting for friends and that. Where are you from?' he asked.
I half-smiled at the predictability of the question. The easy answer, and what felt true, was to say, 'From here'.
But they always wanted to know more. He didn't buy it, licking his lips.
'My mother's Italian, my father's Aboriginal.'
'Ah,' he said, and repeated it for clarity.
'And where are you from?' I asked. It was only fair.
'I'm from West Africa,' he said, guarded, and of course it was a line from him. What was West Africa?
'What's your name?' he said, looking at me with some sort of understanding.
'Bella. Yours?'
'Akachi,' he mumbled self-consciously.
It took three times to pronounce it properly, but I wanted to. I looked in his eyes.
'I asked because you look different,' he said.
Again, I could have rolled my eyes at the predictability. We looked at each other. I was used to these sorts of moments of connection. Lines of dialogue came in to my head. Welcome, brother. Thank you, sister.
'You study, work?'
'I'm still at school,' I said. How old did this fella think I was?
'Oh. Yeah. I study and work.'
'You doing anything interesting tonight?' I asked.
'Waiting for friends. We're going out to the city. I go here to check my emails. You here often?'
'Not really.' I reckoned I should come here more often. 'I've got to get changed,' I said, pointing away.
'Okay,' he said. 'Nice to meet you.' And he made the effort to give me one of the handshakes I'd always wanted, made me feel like one of the boys.
In the bathroom I stood in front of a mirror. I slipped off my singlet and T-shirt bra. My arms were tanned from all those afternoons running in the bush. My small breasts, that I had just noticed a year ago, but my grandmother had obsessed with years before, were pale in comparison. There was a sunburnt strip across my collarbone from the last game. I was still kind of black, though. More so, without clothes. I changed my bra and changed my skirt for shorts. I fixed my hair and looked at my sleepy eyes and said to myself, Get ready.
When I got out, Akachi was gone.
At the train station, I used the fifteen minutes to pace, flexing my leg muscles, prepping myself. The station was quiet. I saw some mob with Roar shirts and I was sorry I would miss the game as it would be played at the same time as mine. I thought ahead to my game. An unknown quantity, this opposition. They'd won their first game, narrowly. I wondered if my dad would be there. Was he wondering where I was, whether I'd got my application in and how I'd get to the game? He always took me to the games. I had to ride my bike to training quite a lot, but he always took me to the games.
The lit train crunched into the station, and I felt the studs of my boots dig into my back as I put my backpack back on.
I arrived later than we were meant to and walked the dusty path to the football field. It was lit up and empty, like a runway. The grass looked beautiful. Sparkling. I walked past the group of three refs. I nodded to my coach. Anxious. I hoped he'd play me up front. Most of the girls were already in the dressing room. I touched Casey's shoulder. She was nervous. It was her first game back from being really sick in hospital. I pulled the red-and-black over my head. Completed my pre-game superstitions. Left foot first. Got Casey to tape my right ankle even though it had been a year since the injury. Did my ponytail four times. I watched our lanky goalkeeper, Bronte, eat a banana. She had such an expressive face that, sometimes, when I was nervous, impatient, I would slow down, gather my thoughts, be entertained just by watching her frown at the team sheet.
'We have two subs,' she announced. 'And Bella. You haven't signed.'
I took the sheet from her and scribbled my initials. I had thought my dad would be outside, but he wasn't. Perhaps he was watching the Roar instead, which I didn't mind. He could let me know the score. But perhaps he was still out in the forest in the dark.
We did our usual warm-up. The string of girls flooding past in lines was comforting. How unlike the real game. No randomness. Just repeat, repeat. The ball moving in straight lines. At one point, the passing line broke down, the ball had an uneven delivery, and it bobbled off the ground; the receiver was unable to trap it, and it went over her foot. She raced out to get it, and, with my hands on my hips, I turned and had a look at the opposition. I didn't normally like to do this. It just sets me off. I thought: Who were the defenders? Any weak links? Does the goalkeeper have anything? Would she dive for my trademark right-hand corner placement?
My teammates were suddenly squealing; they went soft on me, screaming at the discovery of a toad standing guard on the pitch where the ball had rolled. My coach was on it, running over, and before I could say anything, he kicked the toad with his steel-capped boot. 'Keep going, girls,' he growled.
I was playing on the left wing. My second position. Covering for missing girls. I didn't mind that much. I knew I'd still get my chances. Although I did feel a little self-conscious. I had been chosen to represent State. I was my team's biggest weapon. But I wasn't put where I was most effective. I looked at the two girls playing there, Casey was one of them. She was a defender by birth and always would be. I was angry at the decision. There were no scouts, I didn't have to prove anything, but, at the same time, I did.
During the game, I remembered why I didn't like playing wing. It was a game played in a tunnel. A long, narrow stretch of the park. In defence, I had to tuck in, cover the gap in the middle, and also work with my fullback to cover the space in behind. The transition between defence and attack, and attack and defence, was frustrating. When we got the ball, I'd sprint my guts out, create space for myself wide, but I wouldn't get the ball. A couple of times when I did get it, bunched back in my half, I decided to take on the player, try and use my speed to get around her. But it didn't work. I was too predictable, and got caught; she always had backup.
In defending, I was unenthusiastic. I could feel my goal-scoring energy being sucked up every time I turned on my heel and ran backwards to cover.
We scored early. Donna finished well. I felt relief, and that we would get some more. We had a corner soon after.
During the corner, I stood at the front post, ready to flick anything on. Donna took the corner. The ball went past me and hit an opposing player, a mistimed clearance, and I moved my body so that the ball came to me. I quickly controlled it, got my boot under it, and hit it on the half-volley. Before I knew the outcome of the strike, I thought of my father. Then real time happened and the strike hit the keeper and she saved it. I sprinted backwards, in defence, to swallow it. I suspected then that it would be my best chance of the game.
It was 1 — 1 at half-time. We weren't happy. Our keeper was trying to pick us up. Casey and I weren't even making jokes like we normally did.
I was better than the girl I was playing. Loads better. But she had her dad egging her on from the sideline. 'Round her!' I thought my dad would do that if he was there. Except his favourite cheer was 'C'mon!' At one point of the match, she did round me. Conned me, took off, went running into miles of space. I felt foolish and couldn't catch up. I chased her down to the corner flag, but I was nowhere close to making any sort of contact. It didn't cause a goal or anything, but I was annoyed.
I got a message from the coach to swap positions with Casey and jump up front. Here we go. I started to get some good touches. Control the match. Put my girls in for some good chances. But on the other end, we copped it. Mistake after mistake, and we were down 3 — 1. Terrible. I still tried. Whenever Bronte had it in her paws, I took off to make myself an option, got all the high balls.
Lack of sleep was catching up on me. And I was cramping. My calves were stiff.
Towards the end of the game, when both coaches were subbing, and the players were no longer running to get the ball when it went past the sideline, I got the ball in a good position. Casey was behind me, and I gave it to her quickly , hoping to get it back. Yes! She put it through the hole. I was right in on goals. At the keeper again! But the ball bounced off, to Donna, who hit it well. It pushed off the post but I was running so hard at it I didn't see it and there were hands on my shirt and I was on the ground and the ball was in the net. Where did it come off? My knee? Chest? My girls were around me.
I had got my goal, sort of, but it didn't feel any kind of sweet. Before anything else could happen, the ref blew the whistle for the end of the game.
'Where's your dad?' Casey said as we walked barefoot across the field. I realised how drenched in sweat my jersey was.
'I don't know,' I replied.
'We'll take you home,' Casey's mum said.
I clicked the door open cautiously.
'Dad?'
'Bella?'
I felt the emotion that had been building up all day come out as I ran towards Dad, standing against the sink, hair messy and tired-looking, like even too tired for a hug. But I touched his arm, repeating, 'Where were you?'
'I'm sorry, I had to go buy a printer, so I went to Kmart this morning and I just couldn't work out which one to get.'
It sounded like an incomplete excuse as to where he had been all day, but I didn't press him any further.
We sat down at the kitchen table and I slowly rolled my socks off.
'I got so tired, I can't explain it,' Dad said. 'I really miss her, you know, and I end up getting myself in knots because she was your mum. You must miss her so much.'
'You're allowed to miss her, too, Dad.'
He tried to smile. 'How was the game? Did you score?'
'Yeah.' I didn't lift my head.
'I wish I could have seen it.'
'I had to play wing. It was a tough game, Dad. We lost. But we'll get there next time. I caught a train from the city, I passed through and posted —'
'You got the application in,' Dad interrupted, sighing with relief.
'Yeah. We'll be going to Canberra, Dad.' I said it without knowing but feeling, feeling a determination in my feet. My hands brushed over the unpaid bills and the coffee rings stained into the table. 'I printed it at the State Library and I met a nice boy called Akachi who follows Real Madrid.'
Dad looked at me suspiciously.
'What?' I said.
'I thought you liked girls.'
I shrugged. 'It was 3 — 2. Donna scored the other one.'
'Tell me about your goal.'
'Yeah, I just got my body in the way.'
'Came off your eyebrow?'
'My knee!'
'Good one.'
'Totally intentional,' I said, and my mind started to wander to the next game I'd play, how Dad would be there to see my future goals.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Meet Me at the Intersection"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Rebecca Lim and Ambelin Kwaymullina.
Excerpted by permission of Fremantle Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Cover Artwork,
Introduction,
Ellen van Neerven,
Graham Akhurst,
Kyle Lynch,
Ezekiel Kwaymullina,
Olivia Muscat,
Mimi Lee,
Jessica Walton,
Kelly Gardiner,
Jordi Kerr,
Yvette Walker,
Melanie Rodriga,
Rafeif Ismail,
Omar Sakr,
Amra Pajalic,
Wendy Chen,
Michelle Aung Thin,
Alice Pung,
Rebecca Lim,
Contributor Biographies,